


For My Prayer Has Always Been Love

by The_Circadian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Curses, Drinking, F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderswap, Incest, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Past Character Death, Past Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Past Sam Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Past Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s), Pining, Sibling Incest, Temporarily Female Dean Winchester, Temporarily Female Sam Winchester, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22958299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circadian/pseuds/The_Circadian
Summary: Back on the road after tragedy finds them again, Sam and Dean find themselves seemingly cursed by an unknown source. With little to go on, their previous plans to find their father are put on hold while they try to fix whatever has changed them into female versions of themselves.Despite the curse and his grief over the loss of Jess, the situation does nothing good for Sam's long running, hidden feelings for his brother. If anything it's harder and harder to deny how he feels.Takes place soon after the Season 1 Pilot.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To preface, this fic has been in the works for about ten years now. It's unbeta'd, so it may feel a bit unpolished and I may come by every so often to fix a typo here and there. The only eyes that have really deeply critiqued it are mine. For a long time I thought I would never post this fic. I began writing it when I was coming to terms with my own trans identity, and at the time I was very dysphoric. A lot of my misguided self-loathing for my body and the way the world saw it and projected on it, sometimes really purges itself in this story. Characters' views and the narrative are often cisnormative and the sort of toxicity I had to let go of one finger at a time as I came to acceptance of myself and as my view of gender blossomed. 
> 
> If cis-swap fics or "genderswap" fics give you dysphoria, I would tread carefully with this one. No slurs, but teasing, and a lot of cisnormative, heteronormative perspective and talk, that given the characters, may be IC, but still, be safe and kind to yourself, sweet ones. There are slightly spoilery chapter warnings in the end notes of each chapter if needed.
> 
> With all it's rough edges and problematic aspects, I am still very proud of it. It's special to me for the work it took inside and out, the time I spent with it, and my love of the boys and this ship. And maybe this story could be special to someone else too. That's my hope, at least.
> 
> -K

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m drawn to the blood  
>  The flight of a one-winged dove  
> How? How did this happen?  
> How? How did this happen?_
> 
> _For my prayer has always been love  
>  What did I do to deserve this?_
> 
> _-Sufjan Stevens_
> 
> Content warnings at the end of all chapters. If there's something I miss you would have preferred CW'd for, leave a comment and I'll add it.

The tone of Dean’s voice when he says the name of the town is half joking and half relief.

It’s one in the morning. Twenty hours of driving down. Sam had taken the first eight and then spent the rest passenger side doing research to see if there was anything he could find out about the case they'd gotten whispers of four states over. His head had been unhelpfully fuzzy for the last half of the drive. Evidence pointed to witches, could easily be a haunting too. But exhaustion is getting the better of both of them and Dean suggests pulling off to this little town, tiny but lit up enough at this hour to be promising. They’re an hour and a half away from where they had planned on stopping for the night, but it’s no problem.

Lornisberg. Even if it’s not where they were planning on stopping to sleep, it looks wholesome – small businesses, crafty little shops, and mom and pop owned restaurants.

They’re tired, more so than usual, and hungry, but feeling like they’re within walking distance of a hot meal and a bed perks them up. Dean pulls into a 24 hour diner and they eat in half-silence and Doris asks them if they’ve come a long way. “Yes, ma’am.” Dean smiles into his eggs and looks at Sam with a different small smile in his eyes like they share a secret: They’ve always come a long way because they’ve never really stopped, have they? Sam tries to ignore the ache he feels at the easiness of them being back on the road again, considering what it took for Sam to come back. Sam is still free falling in loss, the carefully constructed life and future he'd been creating newly shattered and it's a daily struggle to get up and move through the wreckage of it. The guilt knocks the wind it off him daily. But he can't deny the familiarity and the comfort being with Dean naturally brings.

Sam doesn’t know why they decided getting a beer on top of the meal was a good idea, because now he’s buzzed and dead on his feet. Dean seems fine to drive though, pats the warm heat of his palm on Sam’s shoulder laughing that he’d have thought all the Ivy League would have partied the lightweight right out of him.

They make it to the closest motel, the Turn Inn (“Stupid name,” Dean had muttered. “You change one letter and it says ‘Turd Inn’”), and Sam barely manages getting his jeans off before he’s falling into bed.

“We’re out of here at eight,” Dean says as he undresses and gets under the covers.

But Sam is fast asleep.

The first thing Sam notices when he wakes up is feeling just slightly _off_. His breath doesn’t fill his lungs the same way, it seems shallower. The next thing that becomes apparent is the weight change. He nearly propels himself into Dean’s bed getting up and then, looking down, finds slender, smaller feet than his own, and, raising his hands in front of his face, delicate long fingers.

“Dean?”

He turns in shock, gasps when he realizes that small, fluty sound was his voice.

He – oh, god he has breasts. “Holy—” He pulls his hand away as soon as he touches them like he’s been burned. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and just catches his boxers before they slide off his hips.

“Dean?!” he says, more desperate than before, eyes still squeezed closed as he holds his shirt out and away from his body in his fist, as if hiding the details helps somehow.

Sam hears Dean turn over in bed, push off the covers and sit up slowly and Sam finally manages to open his eyes, ready for the humiliating litany of jokes about to pour from Dean, the seemingly endless laughter that will result from Sam-might-as-well-be-a-sister actually cursed into being one. But when Sam meets Deans gaze his expression is not what Sam imagined – it’s surprised and then groggily annoyed.

It’s also on a very definitely feminine face.

Dean looks down at his chest and his hands, runs those fingers through his short hair and mutters a small and husky, “Goddamn it.” He gets up and goes through his bag to pull out a flashlight and starts scouring the room for hex bags. He flips open his phone, dials, and presses the phone to his ear as he bends down to look under the beds, lighter voice picking up in tone when he says, “Yeah, Bobby? It’s Dean. We’ve got a problem.”

Sam kind of feels like he’s wearing someone else’s underwear. Or he’s glued to somebody else. Or… He shudders – This is absolutely the weirdest and most uncomfortable he’s ever felt. And that includes the time he was a puppy for an afternoon (which, though he’d never admit it out loud, actually wasn’t that bad: Dean had fed him when he whined and carried him in his coat for a while to keep him warm and, really, there is no way to describe how good having a scratch behind the ears felt, or knowing that, even when that defenseless, Dean still looked out for him completely). He’s had some odd physical curses, but this is just… it feels genuinely pervy just by being what it is. He holds his arms out from his body slightly and tries not to move much. Dean on the other hand is walking those new curves around the room like nothing has changed, though he does bump his hip into the chair once.

“No, no witches. I don’t think so anyway. We were just passing through... I don’t know, Bobby! That’s why we called you.”

Sam is watching Dean intently, hoping as soon as that phone is clicked shut Dean will mutter the counter-spell or tell him where the amulet is they need to reverse this or anything because this feels strange. So strange and so entirely creepy he doesn’t even know where to start.

Dean hangs up, turns and starts going through his bag.

“Dean?”

“Bobby’s got nothing,” he says, voice still low even for a girl. “He says as far as he can tell there’s no job here right now. He’ll look back and see if we could have picked this up somewhere else.”

Which makes Sam feel _loads_ better. Now it feels like he caught a disease. A disease that gives you lady parts and – he suddenly has the chilling realization of the emptiness between his legs. He grimaces. It’s not like he’s got anything like a castration phobia, it’s just you get used to, you know, always imagining it would be where it goes. Sam silently curses his college roommate for playing “Detachable Penis” enough times that Sam remembers it now.

“There’s nothing we can do?” He tries once more. Dammit, his voice is so _girly_.

“Seems like no.”

Sam sits back down in bed trying to not to look at himself or Dean for that matter.

“In the meantime,” Dean says with a sigh as he rummages through his bag, “we lay low.” He decides on one of his smaller shirts, puts it to the side. “Yeah, this is definitely _weird_ but we don’t even know if there _is_ a job here. Like Bobby said, could be something from somewhere else that we passed by or a job half finished by someone else. Or there’s something here and we just don’t know. Anyway, we’re not exactly in prime condition to hunt - I mean balance-wise, and we’re pretty much screwed on judging our endurance, at least right now…” Dean trails off and throws his hands up. “I was sure I had a bra in here.”

Sam is brought out of his melancholy for a moment by curiosity. “You carry a bra around in your bag?” He starts to laughs, but the alien sound of it stops the reaction before it’s more than a soft scoff.

Dean looks over, a smirk that, even though it’s on a girl’s face, is in every way Dean’s smirk. “Waitress back in Tampa,” he says, and nods like Sam even remembers which one, which happily he doesn’t. “She left me a souvenir. A lacy, see-through—“

“Okay, Dean, got it,” Sam interjects, because Sam really, really does not want to think of the tits Dean’s sporting being held up in sheer lace. That thought gets buried as fast as humanly possible, which Sam thinks pitifully, isn’t fast enough.

Dean laughs a mildly sadistic little chortle. “Just trying to help,” he says.

“Help?”

“I’m not the one that needs the bra, dude.”

Sam feels his face flush until he feels dizzy. He crosses his hands over his chest, keeping his arms an inch away from touching _them_. So they’re bigger than Dean’s. Whatever.

“You okay, Sam?” Dean turns to him, his face growing serious.

Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out. “No.” Sam keeps his words tight. “No, I am not ‘okay,’ Dean.”

Dean waits, blinks a couple times and then gestures a _give me more to go on here_.

“Seriously?” Sam says, exasperated. “If you haven’t noticed, in the last couple hours we… I…” Sam trails off, finds his gaze moving over to where the carpet and the wall meet, farther off.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean says and Sam hears the small smile in his words. “If there was ever a time for us to talk about our feelings, this is it – we’ve got all the parts.”

“That’s exactly it!” Sam nearly shouts and finds himself even angrier with how his voice sounds that way, passionate and high. “I’ve got,” he says, then drops his voice down to a hissing whisper, “breasts and... We’re _female_ , Dean! And you seem just fine with not knowing when the hell this is going to get fixed, _if_ it gets fixed and…”

It must sink in for Dean just how upset Sam is because he comes over and sits down on the bed across from him.

“Bobby’s on it,” Dean says to him, quiet coaxing words. “He said to lay low, so we’re laying low. No use spending energy freaking out over this right now. Not till we know something.”

Sam rubs his hands over his face and sighs deeply.

“Give me a day, Sam. One day,” Dean says. “After tomorrow, if Bobby hasn’t found anything, we’ll go out looking. Okay? One day.”

Sam ponders this. He’s waited through worse things in his life for longer. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Dean says, rising and patting his shoulder with an unfamiliar, smaller hand.

Sam winces. “Ugh, no touching.”

Dean responds with a sound like an angry cat. “So bitchy,” he mutters with a smile.

They watch TV and read. The hours tick by, and sooner than later both of them get antsy.

Dean is less quiet about it than Sam though.

“See normally this is where I’d be ordering porn.”

Sam closes his eyes. “Really, Dean?” He mutters.

“You’re here now though, so, you know, that’s not happening.”

“Thank you,” Sam says gratitude tinged with sarcasm. He really hopes it ends there.

“Though, really,” Dean continues, “who needs porn in this situation?”

Sam wants to leave this conversation five minutes ago, before it even started.

“I mean, look at this,” Dean gestures down at himself, lying on his back, perky breasts pressing against the cotton of his shirt, curvy hips peaking from his low hangings jeans. “I’m used to it now; this is the,” Dean counts on his fingers and shrugs, “third time – fourth, if you count the time I just got the boobs.” He laughs. “I mean as far as curses go, it’s kind of awesome.”

Sam makes a sound of frustration from behind his book.

“The first time it happened was just after you left for school. Witch that said I didn’t respect women. Twenty four hours like this,” he laughs, “I don’t think she really thought the whole curse through - put a straight guy in a woman’s body? Man, I was just beating it till the curse was over.”

Sam puts the pillow over his head and moans.

“I did not need to know _any_ of that,” Sam says, voice muffled.

“Just saying, I’ve done this a couple times, no big deal.”

“Got it,” Sam replies from under the pillow and really – fuck Dean. Sam knows he’s blushing and until he’s sure he isn’t beet red, he’s staying under this pillow. He has no idea how long that might take.

He lifts the pillow off his face turning fast towards the bathroom. He needs to be away from Dean for a minute.

“Where you going?” Dean asks.

“I have to use the bathroom.”

“Sure you do,” Dean says with a smirk.

Sam closes the door and locks it.

It takes a moment before he even registers he’s doing it, but he’s turned on the shower. Showering is something he habitually does when he’s stressed, if he has time. But now he realizes this means he has to confront what is under his clothes and Sam has no idea if he’s up for that. Should he turn the shower off and just sit in here for a while? No, that’s ridiculous. No big deal. If it’s no big deal to Dean, it should be no big deal to Sam, right? Right. He pulls off his shirt and his boxers and then slowly looks up at the mirror.

He’s… wow.

So this is what he’d have looked like if he was a girl. And it’s not so bad. Really different than Dean out there, but then again they’re pretty different looking for siblings anyway. But, huh. He’s still tall – taller than Dean is as a girl, but proportionally the same height difference, he guesses, that they had as guys. Not sure though, he might be a little shorter than that. But his hair is the same (like Dean’s is the same), his coloring is the same (like Dean’s is the same). All the same beauty marks, freckles, and scars. Really nothing has changed except for the fact that he is obviously not biologically male in any way. All his features are the same, but they’ve softened into feminine ones. For a moment he’s kind of overwhelmed with how well he turned out, a strange kind of pride that is quickly turning into a familiar rush of arousal as he stares at the copious swell of breasts, the flat stomach, the gentle sweep of waist to slender hips, the soft pubic area between and below them, covered in surprisingly soft hair. As he turns slightly, an ass that strangely resembles a softer, fuller version of his original one comes into view. He places his palm over the meat of it and presses, watches in reflection his own hands that aren’t his hands touch over soft flesh, moves one up to his breast to squeeze. Fuck, he can’t even get his whole hand around one of them.

Sam stops and puts both hands on the counter, biting his lip. He is not masturbating in this body. He refuses. Just. No.

He can get through a shower. He can do that.

He then has to double-take peeing for a second. Sitting down, right.

Sam steps under the water, warmth spreading over this new form, trickling over the newer parts of it and feeling way too good. He turns and puts his back to the spray, spends a good five minutes thinking about things that are in no way sexy, or trying to – first he thinks about baseball, but he realizes that won’t work because he has very limited knowledge about it, so he thinks about hunting instead but that just makes him think about Dean.

For anyone else thinking about their brother should do the trick, but Sam reminds himself that he’s a disgustingly special case in that department and has been for a very long time. Before he knows it, thinking about Dean has led to thinking about _Dean_ which then turns into girl Dean, who’s touching her-himself for twenty-four hours straight in every position she-he can get into until girl-Dean is sweaty and naked and worn out and desperately fucking her fingers and moaning and –fuck! No. Nonono. Fuck.

Sam leans back against the plastic siding of the motel shower and exhales in near agony. Dammit. Unsexy. Think unsexy. An old physics teacher he had in High School, there we go, yeah, Mr. Langly who taught him AP Physics, but ultimately this train of thought leads him to the subject of friction and how what he now has between his legs is pretty much screaming at him to do something about what he started.

Sam turns the hot water knob down completely and stands under the cold spray clenching his teeth and goes back to just avoiding touching anything, in any way, at all.

Fifteen minutes later Sam comes out of the bathroom with his towel wrapped around himself feeling stronger for the experience (or lack of one) somehow. He still feels uncomfortably tense from lack of release, (which he finds interesting as it’s pretty much the same feeling he had as a guy. Now on the road with Dean, rushed and on the move, often as of late there’s been little alone time at all, so it’s becoming a more common sensation for him than it had been the last year or two), but he also now feels slightly more connected to this strange new body, at least a little bit, enough to recognize it as his own. Because it is. And he’s okay with it; it’s temporary, and, more importantly, it’s _his_.

Sorta.

So he’s prepared for the jeering, he’s ready for whatever Dean has been cooking up while he was in there. He is a steel wall of impenetrability.

Or so he thinks. When Sam pulls his towel tighter and looks up, Dean is sitting at the table reading the newspaper, or had been. As it turns out, Dean’s reaction is one Sam was not expecting at all and he has no idea what to do with it:

Dean is staring. He’s looking at Sam like he doesn’t know where his eyes are supposed to rest, mouth open slightly and working on what looks like had been the beginning of words. It’s fast but, yes, Dean was looking at him like… Sam stares back dumbfounded. “Dean?”

Dean meets his eyes, takes a small breath. “Yeah?” Cocky smile replacing the subtle look that was there seconds before.

“All my clothes are too big and you’re shorter so, um,” Sam starts.

‘Oh, yeah, sure, dig through,” Dean says and gestures towards his bag, clears his throat and makes to go back to reading his paper. “Go for it.”

Sam feels Dean’s eyes on him while he digs through Dean’s clothes. “Are any of these even clean?” Sam asks to ease the uneasy silence, trying not to nervously laugh, but then shaking his head in half regret because he knows he’s going to have to wear something in this bag, dirty or not. Dean’s smell all over him. He swallows, and pulls a shirt and pair of jeans out at random. “Whatever.”

“I’ll be back,” Dean blurts out and practically rockets out of his chair.

“What?” Sam asks.

“I, uh, gotta get something,” Dean says hurriedly, shoving his wallet and cellphone in his pockets.

Sam lifts an eyebrow. “You’re going out? Whatever happened to ‘laying low’?”

Dean isn’t slowing. He finds his keys. “Just picking up some things we need.”

Sam looks Dean over, and, really, he looks like the type of chick you’d never want to mess with, a girl that carries herself like she can take on anything, with a glare that intimidates as much as it intrigues even when it doesn’t mean to, short hair and clothes that look like she doesn’t give a fuck what you think she should be wearing. All Dean needs is a neck tattoo, Sam thinks, and people will avoid confronting him completely.

Yeah, Dean’ll be fine.

“O… kay,” Sam says as the door slams shut and the Impala roars to life.

Once the sound of the Impala’s engine fades into the distance, Sam slips into Deans’ shirt and jeans, practically swimming in them, they’re so big. He falls back on the bed, Dean’s smell everywhere around him. And that at least is wonderful.

Two hours later the sun is gone, Sam is watching Mean Girls, and Dean comes through the door with two armfuls of department store bags. “Did you see the other Impala out there?” Dean asks putting the bags down. “Dark red, but the same year. Beat to shit, poor baby.”

“What the hell?” Sam says. “What did you do?”

“Got us some clothes,” Dean says and looks at the TV quickly. “Haaa, I like this one.”

“Come again?” Sam asks.

“Nah, I’m all good,” Dean says and laughs like the joke was incredibly clever.

Sam doesn’t want to linger wondering if there’s any truth in it. “Clothes? Like, _girl_ clothes?”

“That’s right, Sammy.” He’s busy looking through the bags, dividing them into two piles.

Sam frowns. “Why?”

Dean shrugs, ‘Why not? We can’t wear our own and might as well have some that fit.” He shoves a handful of bags in Sam’s direction. “These are yours.”

Sam rolls his eyes as he sits and starts to look through them. “Please don’t tell me you got me hotpants or something equally unwearable.”

Dean smiles to himself with a half shrug. “Thought about it. Why, did you want some?”

“No.” Sam says curtly, pulls out a pair of jeans that say they’re bootcut, a blue low cut v-neck t-shirt, a pair of dark green shorts, white razorback tank top, another in black. A navy blue hoodie. Simple clothes, and they all look like they’ll fit. He nods, genuinely impressed. “These are actually pretty nice, Dean.”

Dean nods his head to the side, accepting the compliment. “Hey, they don’t call me a ladies’ man for nothing.”

Sam laughs unbelieving. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“Shut up.”

Sam is still laughing when he pulls a smaller pink bag into his lap, a laugh that dies as soon as he pulls out what’s inside and, in horror, drops it right back in. “ _Dean?!_ ”

“What? What’s wrong?” Dean asks looking up from the order-in menus.

Sam bites his lip, and holds up the white push up.

“Yeah?”

Sam can’t even put words together.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Sam shakes his head to himself in disbelief.

“I’m sorry the heavens decided you were the one that got all the tits, Sammy, but if you plan on leaving this hotel eventually for anything, you’re gonna want that bra.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam says sarcastically.

“They’ll be a lot less… distracting when they’re where they’re supposed to go in a t-shirt. Really,” Dean presses.

Distracting? Sam thinks as Dean begins pulling out his own clothes.

“There’s some panties in there too. I got you cotton ones. They’re comfy. One of them is striped. You like stripes, right?” Dean is acting like Sam’s twelve just to get on Sam’s nerves, just to make him feel immature. And okay, maybe Dean has a right to. Sam is being stubborn for no reason. The bra isn’t that showy or girly save a small bit of lacy trim around the edge of the cups, it’s just supportive. And when he looks in the bag, the panties are actually pretty cute, kind of boyish.

Fine.

Sam goes to the bathroom to change. He pulls off Dean’s clothes, which takes barely a couple seconds as they were falling off him anyway. The panties fit snugly, and, it’s an odd sensation. He’s not used to much other than boxers and these are held right up against him, hugging at his ass and... other places. Alright, step two: the bra. Sam has dealt with these things on girlfriends, got good at it too after a while. An intense pang of grief pulls through him at the thought of Jess. He breathes through it, blinks back the tears and looks at himself in the mirror. The sight is enough to knock him out of the depths and into an obscure feeling prickling with fear. It’s like a stranger is in the room, but it’s him. Half-naked hot girl stranger Sam. He goes back to trying to hook the bra and gives up on the first method of trying to hook it behind him, pulls it around his waist, puts the hooks through the appropriate eyes and push-pulls it around, putting his arms through the straps and adjusting the thing until, yep, everyone is in their little cups, happy and on the half-shell. Great. That only took five more minutes than it should have.

Sam opens and closes his mouth stupidly when he looks up because he had no idea it would look that good. His breasts are sitting right up there. And Sam doesn’t really know whether he should feel conceited or just happy that he’s not freaking out at the moment, because all he can think right now is how hot he looks. He’s got a fit body still, tan and toned, and with the panties concealing the shocking parts and the bra pushing everything up to be admired - and there is quite a nice amount to admire there - he knows if he had a dick it would be standing at attention right now over… himself. Which is, perhaps the most mind-bending sexual thought he’s ever had. Is it still narcissism if you’ve never seen yourself this way before? Sam figures it is, but honestly doesn’t care too much at the moment. He turns and looks at himself from behind, at the way the panties accentuate his hips.

“That’s _fantastic_ ,” he murmurs to himself.

“Sam, what do you want for dinner?” Dean shouts from the other room and Sam starts.

“Um,” he calls back, steadying his voice, “whatever.” He pulls the tags off the jeans and puts them on quickly. They’re a little loose at the waist, but they’re staying on so that’s good.

“Chinese okay?”

‘Yeah, sure.” Sam pulls the v-neck over his head, admires for a couple more moments how much good that bra actually does, even under clothes, and then fixes his hair and heads back out into the other room.

Dean is on the phone in a tight dark red t-shirt, nice pair of ladies jeans hanging low enough Sam can see a line of pale skin of Dean’s lower back.

“Yeah, for William Wonka,” Dean says, looks over his shoulder at Sam with a quick smile in his eyes, a flash of green, and winks.

It feels like a punch.

When has Dean ever _winked_ at him? Maybe it’s a habit, a way he acts with the ladies he brings back to motels. The thought makes Sam’s stomach turn, heat rise under his skin. “Room seven.”

Dean hangs up and Sam turns towards the TV, watches absently.

_‘Oh, no… word vomit.’_

Dean wolf whistles and passes a beer to Sam. Sam takes it.

“Looking good,” Dean says and takes a swig, joins Sam in looking in the direction the television.

“Thanks,” Sam mutters.

Dean laughs to himself, small feminine laugh that sounds somehow still remarkably like Dean’s and Sam wishes he had it in him to take a walk.

“You know, when I got the bras, the lady _fitted_ me for them. She had her hands all over them, Sam,” he laughs, motioning at his chest. “And when I said I needed another in a larger size for my ‘sister’,” he laughs harder. “Man, I think she thought I had a girlfriend. She nodded and every time she said ‘sister’ it was in this kind of—“

Sam walks over to his bed and sits down.

Dean’s stopped his story, obviously senses he went too far somewhere and seems to be weighing whether he should keep pushing or find out what he said wrong.

“I don’t know,” he finishes, nonchalant and under his breath. “It was funny.”

Sam nods and keeps staring at the TV.

The dinner arrives and they eat in silence on their beds, Lindsey Lohan acting her little ass off. Dean laughs when Sam can’t seem to manage it.

They get ready for bed. Dean got them pajamas as well and Sam slips into flannel plaid, gets under the covers. Dean turns off his light, Sam turns out his own, and they lie there in the dark.

After a few minutes, Sam can’t pretend anymore that he’s easily falling to sleep.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean’s just as wide awake as he is, from the sound of it.

“You said ‘one day.’”

“Yeah,” Dean responds. “I remember, Sammy. I’ll call Bobby and see if he found anything in the morning. Get some sleep.”

Sam lies there for a while, feeling small in this bed, feeling helpless. He hates it.

He loves Dean for being there again in the other bed though. And he loves that Dean cares this much. He doesn’t have to care this much. Sam feels a familiar guilt swimming in his stomach.

He left Dean. He left. He can’t fix that.

Sleep comes slowly, and, when it does, it’s filled with shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Cis swapped curse hits Sam and Dean (AMAB and cis men magically become AFAB overnight. This includes suddenly having smaller and shorter statures, higher voices, breasts, vaginas and vulvas, and in general characteristics that give them the appearance of femininity to others and themselves. Hair, fitness, and coloring are unchanged.) Sexual themed and cisnormative gender based teasing, heavy dysphoria on Sam's part, incestuous longing, mild drinking, mentions of cannon character death, grief, mild objectification, sexual frustration, jealousy, 2005 fashion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teasing, desire, and Sam attempts to take a few things into his own hands.
> 
> Warnings in notes at the bottom of the page.

“Wow, well, that’s new.”

Sam wakes to the strange new timbre of Dean’s voice. He’s pacing by the table, phone to his ear.

“It’s worth looking into,” Dean says quietly. Sam can hear Bobby’s voice on the other end of the line, but can’t make out the words. “No, Bobby. We can look into it.” Sam lies there, listening as Dean’s voice drops. “I told the kid we’d start looking into it after a day, he’s going stir crazy here, man. I am too.” Bobby doesn’t seem too impressed from the tone that fills in the silence on Dean’s side. “I know, I know, but…” Dean lets out his breath. “Fine, we’ll wait. Just call me when you have a definite lead. Or info.” Dean adds, “Please.”

Dean stares out the window for a while after he hangs up. Sam watches him for a good minute.

“That Bobby?” Sam asks and yawns.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “He’s got a fuzzy lead. Something about some ultra-radical feminist society that used to be here in the late 70s that was a little more violently active than your average bear. Bobby mentioned the Wicker Man.” Dean runs a hand over his face. “All I remember from that movie is bees and Nicholas Cage in a bear suit punching some lady,” Dean says with a shrug. He ponders that and then nods resolutely. “Nah, I’m not watching that crap again. Wikipedia it.”

The thing is Sam’s read the book. Well, not quite, but Jess had read it for a lit class and she talked about it so much Sam ended up knowing the book back to front secondhand. Sam explains the general plot and themes and Dean’s face becomes more and more disturbed until he looks generally disgusted.

“One of the things I hate about fiction, Sam,” he says. “You know. It often turns out somehow somewhere it’s not actually _fiction_.”

Sam smiles to himself. He takes these moments when he disturbs Dean with grace. After all, he’s usually surprised he’s even able to. “I mean, when it comes to views on feminism, it’s pretty out there. Misogynistic even.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still not seeing the connection to why we’re now girls,” Dean says. “But Bobby mentioned it was the only thing he’d found. Or not really found, heard of.”

Sam nods. Dean looks like he’s starting to get a particularly bad headache.

“I need coffee,” Dean says. “Good coffee.”

Sam bites his lip. “I can go get some.”

Dean scoffs, “Like I’m letting you drive.”

“There was a Duncan’s Doughnuts around the corner. It’s like a block or two away. I could use the walk.” Sam sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the mattress and waits expectantly. Dean eyes him.

“You promise you won’t go off doing your own research?” Dean asks warily. “We have a vague lead here, Sam. Which means we have no idea what’s going on here in this town.”

‘No, I know, Dean,” Sam says gathering up his clothes and shuffling into the bathroom. “Just getting coffee.” He hurriedly puts on his clothes behind the wall and slips into his new sneakers.

Dean lets out his breath defeated as Sam zooms past. “Well, I’m not going to _imprison_ you,” Sam hears Dean grumble just as Sam closes the door.

It’s hotter than he imagined outside. He never really thought about it, but, now in one, he realizes bras are in all ways sweaty and uncomfortable. And when you’re not used to them, really irritating. Like someone’s holding you around the ribs all the time, but itchier. The walk brings to Sam’s attention just how different walking is now too. Once again, something he’d never really put much thought into, but that alluring sway of hip women have kind of just comes naturally with the new placement of weight. It’s kind of an awesome discovery too, one that makes him feel a little less awkward about his new body until a passing car honks at him and he can’t decide whether he wants to hurl a rock at them in anger or hide under one in embarrassment.

The air conditioning inside the doughnut shop is a blessing. The men inside that give Sam once-overs are not.

Sam orders half a dozen doughnuts and a couple coffees and leans against the counter, waiting. He feels at least one pair of eyes on him and when he peaks over his shoulder, this feeling is validated with a series of quickly averted male gazes. Uncomfortable doesn’t even start to describe how Sam feels – vulnerable but a little guilty. Has he made women feel like this before? He can’t recall, but probably.

The guy behind the counter seems nice though - the older, humble grandfather type who remembers when things cost a nickel and will tell you about it. His name tag reads, “Larry” and he smiles warmly at Sam as he hands the box of doughnuts across the counter along with the easy-to-carry cup holder holding two coffees. Sam returns the smile in kind and puts the coin change in the tip jar.

“Thanks,” Larry says nodding.

‘No problem. Hey,” Sam says stopping Larry as he starts to turn back to his work. “Just wondering - have you lived here long?”

Larry grins like he’s been waiting for someone to ask him all day. “Coming up on fifty six years,” he says through yellowed dentures like it’s a happy marriage anniversary.

“So you know this town’s history pretty well,” Sam says leaning forward.

“Oh, I should hope so.”

Sam worries his lip a little bit. This guy seems sweet and obviously loves this town. He probably doesn’t want to talk about the dark patches in its past. But he tries anyway, because who knows. Sometimes the nice ones have gossip addictions that edge on the perverse.

“I heard there was something that happened here back in the 70's,” Sam says and Larry’s smile disappears. “Something about a cult. Is that true?”

Larry looks away shaking his head. “That was a long time ago,” he says softly and tidies up the space around the register. “Some bad things happened.” He sighs. Sam knows this is likely the right person to ask because he obviously knows something, but he also seems devastated just by the memory of it. Now isn’t the right time.

“Hey, never mind,” Sam says, with a small wave. “Forget I brought it up.” He takes a napkin out of the stack Larry gave him and writes his cell number on it. “I just need some info for a college project. We’re looking at towns that have recovered from tragedy and become better communities for it.”

Larry considers Sam with a small baffled frown. “They mentioned Lornisberg?”

“Yeah, they did,” Sam says and nods, quickly finishing jotting down his cell number on a napkin. “Anyway. Um, here’s where you can reach me if you think of anything that could help me with this paper.”

Sam slides the scrap of paper over to Larry who reads it and folds it and gently away into his apron pocket. “For sure.”

“Thank you,” Sam says, gathering up everything in his arms. “Sorry again for…”

“No, that’s fine,” Larry says with a soft, pleasant look. “You take care now, miss.”

Sam double takes and then tries not to laugh at the last bit. “You too.”

As Sam walks towards the door a rough looking guy in his forties gets up, and, before Sam gets there, opens it for him. Sam stares for a second. “Thank you,” he says, passing through the doorway and into the sweltering heat outside.

And they say chivalry is dead, Sam thinks to himself and smiles at the bizarreness of it all.

Sam’s half way back to the motel when the roar of a motorcycle comes up alongside him. Sam looks over squinting. It’s the same guy from the doughnut place, the one who had held the door for him minutes before.

“You look like you have somewhere to be,” he shouts over the engine as he pulls over. The engine quiets to an idle, but he still has to speak loudly over the Motorhead blasting from his speakers. “But if you want to know about what I think you want to know about,” he briskly motions for Sam to come over to him, and as Sam takes a step closer, he pulls a small card out of his vest pocket. “I work with a guy who knew somebody. Ask for Mort.” He holds the card out and Sam balances the coffees on top of the box he’s carrying to take it. It says ‘Carl’s Bad Man Motorcycle Repair and Restoration’ in swerving font, a curling line beneath the title that looks like smoke wrapping around twin checkered racing flags. Sam pushes it into his pocket.

“Thanks,” says Sam, eyeing this man through the glare off the chrome.

He signals. “You’re new here. I can tell. Watch yourself,” he says loudly as the engine revs. “Don’t let this town fool you.” Before Sam can ask what he means, he pulls out onto the road, with a jarring roar of acceleration and a cloud of exhaust.

Sam watches him disappear down the road and considers his words, then remembers he’d told Dean he wouldn’t ask anyone questions. Oh, well. Too late now.

Dean is napping when Sam gets back, which is a rare sight, actually. Once Dean is up, he’s usually up until he falling-over-tired, and even then, he sleeps lightly and with one eye open. But he’s lying on his side breathing softly in slumber, mouth open slightly, one arm crossed over himself and under his pillow. His waist dips down, and, at this angle, he’s just soft curves and peacefulness, the smallest bit of cleavage visible under the window of his arm. Sam bites his lip, wonders how he should go about being quiet enough to not wake him. He’s not sure exactly why – normally he wouldn’t care if he woke him up, especially with new information in his back pocket. But something about the way Dean looks like this makes Sam want to be gentler with him, which is jarringly sexist and he knows it. But at least he catches himself at it and there’s no harm there as long as Dean doesn’t catch on. As long as it’s only for the fact that Dean’s a girl right now; as long as it just stays that and isn’t gentleness towards Dean for anything other than gendered habit.

Sam closes the door as quietly as he can, but hears Dean breathe deep and long behind him from the bed, the unmistakable sound of Dean rousing.

“I knocked off, sorry,” Dean says groggily, wipes a hand over his face and then back over his hair as he sits up, looks at Sam with half-lidded eyes. “You got coffee?”

Sam is suddenly breathless with just how pretty that glance is. “Um, yeah.” He empties the contents of his arms, drawing his gaze away from Dean and towards anything else at the moment. “And doughnuts.”

“Awesome.” Dean pushes off the covers, gets up, and takes the seat across from Sam as Sam boots up the laptop. Dean pulls the coffee over, takes a sip, and makes a near obscene sound of gratification and Sam’s eyes dart up. “So good,” Dean purrs and then opens the doughnut box, picks the one covered with powdered sugar and leisurely licks the white stuff off his fingertips as he switches hands.

Sam gets back up, heat pooling in his stomach. Note to self: No powdered doughnuts next time for his own sanity’s sake. The rush of arousal is still thrumming through him as he walks over to the side of the room where the crappy little coffee maker rests on the bureau, takes the few sugar packets next to it, and hopes his voice doesn’t shake as he asks the wall, “Any word from Bobby?”

“No,” Dean says, around a bite of doughnut.

“Should we call, do you think?”

Sam turns back towards the table and stops.

Dean’s got powdered sugar all over his upper lip, licking at the corner of it. He’s got Sam’s laptop open. He’s got his legs open. He’s got nothing on below his shirt but a pair of panties.

Sam closes his eyes, and says, defeated, “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Put on some pants.”

Sam has his eyes closed but he can feel Dean’s reaction, a shrug of _oh for fuck sake_ as he pulls on his jeans. “Such a prude.”

When Sam opens his eyes again, Dean is clothed completely, save his small pale feet peeking out from the bottom of his pants. He’s right back to sipping his coffee and clicking away with sticky fingers at Sam’s computer.

A moment passes where Sam is, as usual these last two days in between dealing with the shock his own unfamiliar form, left with his brain swimming trying to wrap around Dean like this. This is in every way and yet in no way the Dean he knows.

Also, he’s ridiculously hot.

Which is not to say Sam hadn’t noticed this before when Dean was a guy and his brother. And Sam had dealt with it with his own special brand of post-jerk-off lament. For years. But at least that was familiar.

(You get your rocks off on your brother, Sam. Wipe up, satisfy your shame with the comfort that you’ll never do anything about it. Because you won’t, will you, Sam? You wouldn’t do that to Dean on top of everything else. You wouldn’t test your love in one more way that could break it forever.)

Except now. Now-Dean isn’t his-brother-Dean, or jack-off-fantasy-Dean, or any other variation of Dean Sam knows. The attraction seems to hold no prejudice though. In fact it seems to be confused to hell and going haywire, as if it didn’t get the memo that this is still Dean and it’s still _not okay_ even if he does look like the sexiest butch chick Sam ever saw.

Sam really didn’t want to let that train of thought go as far as it just did. Even if he is trying to make sense of things. He’s beginning to think maybe he doesn’t need to make sense of this. Maybe the best plan here is to just stare at anything but Dean until they find the right spell to cure this or it wears off – basically until Dean is in a body Sam instinctively knows he can’t have. Until Sam’s back in a body that knows what’s right and wrong.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks eyeing Sam, his mouth full again.

Sam blinks and shakes the thoughts in his head into ones that seem innocent enough. “You have…” Sam motions to his own lip.

Dean raises his eyebrows and grabs a napkin. In the meantime, Sam quickly grabs his coffee and lies down on his bed. He’s going to stay in a position where looking at Dean takes awkward effort and he’s going to watch TV. Yes.

Sam has all of ten minutes of distraction before Dean starts teasing. He had hoped for more, but what can you do?

“So how’s being a girl treatin’, ya, Sammy?” Dean says.

Maybe if he just ignores him.

“I always said you were the sister I never had.”

Sam wonders why he ever imagined ignoring Dean would help the situation.

“Not funny.”

“It’s hilarious,” Dean corrects.

Sam takes a deep breath, looks at Dean briefly but Dean is busy being gracefully attractive on Sam’s laptop and chewing on the wooden stirring stick of his coffee, looking pleased with himself.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Sam says. “I would really prefer if we didn’t talk about this.”

Success is painted all over Dean’s face at that and Sam considers the increasing possibility that he’s going to be punching a girl in the near future.

“You need to relax,” Dean says like it’s some life lesson he’s required to feed Sam for the rest of his life.

Sam rolls his eyes and changes the channel.

A moment passes where Sam thinks maybe, just maybe Dean has gotten the teasing out of his system for the time being.

“Have you?” Dean says quietly.

Sam sighs. “Have I what?”

“You know what,” Dean says and Sam can hear the pleasure Dean is soaking up at Sam’s expense, can see it when shoots Dean a look.

“No, Dean,” Sam spits. “And you know what? This is getting really, really tedious.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean laughs low. “Just, you know, trying to help.”

Sam says nothing and goes back to staring straight ahead.

There is an odd silence then and Sam doesn’t want to dwell on why it’s there, just tries to enjoy the fact that it is.

Still, unwelcome, it gets Sam to thinking about just how fucking wound up he actually is and has been for days. He honestly can’t remember the last time he jacked off, but he thinks it was at the motel before last they stayed in briefly five days ago, forgettable most likely because it was just that fast - quick and messy relief. No more than an itch scratched.

He vaguely remembers what it was like to have an honest to goodness heavenly solo session when he had the time and privacy over the last couple of years, house empty, flitting through one thought after another, savoring every fantasy until it was impossible _not_ to come, body arching up like a bow, come pumping sticky between his fingers, sweat prickling his skin as he rode the aftershocks coming down, indulging in the fading sleepy rush of orgasm tingling through every inch of him and feeling completely sated. It seems like something from a past life, some place and time where he was a different person, which in many ways it is.

He’s not like Dean. He can’t just get off with whoever seems to fit the ticket that night. Sam’s never been like Dean in this regard. He needs to care about someone. He’d had a couple of experiences early in college that solidified that self-knowledge - a one night stand with a girl who a classmate was trying to set him up with where things had just moved very quickly and, in another instance, a drunken encounter with a dude at a party that led to a blowjob. Both had ended in disaster. The first, the sex had been unbelievably and embarrassingly fast, and she had left apologetically saying that she had class early. The second was worse because Sam was smashed, and it had only happened because of that. And maybe the fact that the dude had green eyes. And was shorter than him. And huskily asked Sam if he’d let him suck his cock. Sam had had enough booze that it wasn’t hard to imagine someone else as he dug his fingers into short, light-brown hair. The music was loud enough even from the inside of that closet that the guy couldn’t hear Sam murmur someone else’s name until he was shooting down his throat.

Both experiences had scared the shit out of Sam, because at first he was almost completely sure that he’d never be able to be with anyone because of Dean. Dean would always be there, hovering – the only person he really wanted. But then he met Jess, and she was so beyond wonderful, Sam knew he had to try. It occurred to him that it was a matter of slowly moving in, slowly opening up. Yes, Dean was the only one who could cut him open and hold tight to his heart. But he wasn’t the only one Sam could love. Sam could love other people, if softer and gently.

There was no place for that in this life now. When Jess died, every gentle part of Sam’s life died with her. Now Sam was back where he’d been before. It was Dean again. And as sick as it made him feel, the more time went by now, this close with Dean again, Sam was realizing it had always been Dean deep down. That in his core, no matter how he tried to run from it or hide it or smother it into submission, who he was fundamentally was anything but gentle. And that part of him was Dean’s and because of that, every other part of Sam was his with it.

It’s a realization that has run Sam over time and time again, you’d have thought at this point Sam would be used to the blow. But he’s not, and he’s guessing he won’t be until he’s deep in the ground. Maybe not even then.

The clock is shining 2AM at him from across the room. He’s still not asleep, his head wild with thoughts, fears.

It’s been four days. Four days of no word from Bobby. Four days of being in this strange new form, running into things, misjudging his strength. Four days of being stuck with his brother who is driving him crazy in more ways than one.

Dean is snoring softly in the next bed, a quiet and girlish sound even so. And Sam looks over without thinking of catching himself first. Dean’s pushed the covers off, and in the humidity of the Summer night, is wearing only a tank top and underwear, sleeping in the position he always does, spread out on his stomach, arms up and folded over his pillow, ass raised slightly. The line of him is still just as pretty as it was a week ago. It’s even prettier in certain ways, Sam thinks, and it seems decent until Sam realizes he’s been staring at Dean for longer than he meant to, eyes resting on the place where he can see the side of Dean’s breast pushing out from under his weight. Dean breathes deeply and makes a small sound in his sleep. Sam’s skin prickles, his heart hammers in his chest.

Then Dean shifts his hips once, twice against the mattress. Sam goes cold. Dean moves again, the same subtle undulation of his body against the bed. The pang of arousal hits so strong Sam catches his lip in his teeth to stop himself from breathing out in anything louder than a hushed rush of air. Dean is…

There’s a low, needy sound from Dean and another slow thrust.

Dean is rubbing himself off in his sleep against the mattress.

Sam bites the whimper back, finds himself cupping his hands over the soaking material of his pajamas more in desperation to stop what’s happening to him than with intent to do something that could help, though he’s beginning to doubt if he can stand this any longer. He can’t take his eyes off of Dean, even now the thrusting has stopped. It happened, and he saw it, and _heard_ it, and it’s enough. It’s enough to be replaying in Sam’s head, over and over until Sam is shaking and covered in sweat, and Sam pushes the covers off and rushes to the bathroom.

It’s darker in the bathroom than the rest of the motel room - no window for light to shine down on him as he checks the door is locked, dread and arousal making his pulse a burning cold roundabout. Sam sinks down to the ground, the cool dark of the bathroom and separation from Dean making his body less adamant for whatever kind of relief it seems to think Sam can supply. Sam takes a deep breath. He’s decided. He’s desperate and turned on as all Hell, but this is a conscious decision. If he’s satisfied in this regard maybe he’ll stop needing to look at Dean for a while. If the physical desire isn’t there, then maybe he can get some peace.

Sam takes a deep breath and sits down on the ground, leaning his back against the wall, cold through his t-shirt. As much as he’s mentally readied himself for this, he has to admit, he has only vague ideas as to how this is done by girls on their own. And though Sam’s pleasured women, he has no idea how to do it on himself now, or even if it will work. Reference-wise, Sam has Jess, who had a vibrator, and porn, which isn’t really made for accuracy.

Sam pushes one hand down slowly under his waistband, fingers brushing over hair and then down farther, until warm slickness envelopes his fingers. Shocking pleasure shoots up his spine.

Sam barely manages to keep the moan quiet, head bent back and against the wall, mouth open. Fuck, it’s good. It’s so, so good. Thoughts of Dean flood his head, all the thoughts he’s been pushing down and under. Sam lets them loose, because he wants this and he wants it fast and now, and Sam works his fingers over himself, wet and foreign, finds the place that makes him feel like he’s going to fly apart, rubs the pads of his fingers over it until they’re drenched, until he’s tense and on edge, feels the approaching climax like he’s rushing towards air from deep underwater, starving for it.

And then nothing.

Sam grimaces in discomfort, tries again, working his fingers over himself, still wet and… it just kind of hurts, oversensitive and bordering on pain, and Sam lets out a frustrated breath as he tries one more time. He didn’t hold out this long just to have the girls variety of blue balls. He grits his teeth. Nothing.

“Dammit,” he mutters, arms going limp in defeat, fingers still slippery with himself.

He stands up, underwear feeling cold and wet all the way to his ass. He turns on the light, fumbles to turn off the fan he accidentally switches on. He’s ashamed as he washes his hands, and looks exhausted in reflection when he glances up and he’s so fucking embarrassed he could die. And he’s horny. He’s so fucking horny, and for some reason the equipment he was dealt out is faulty.

He cleans up as much as he can, smells the musky smell of just how turned on he was still all over him as he slips into new underwear and slides back under the covers. Dean’s still asleep in the other bed but has turned on to his side and away from Sam.

Sam looks over at Dean’s curvy silhouette in the dark only long enough to make sure he’s still asleep before he turns away too and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sexual objectification, mentions of alcohol intoxication, teasing about sexual themes, cisnormative gender based teasing, incestuous desire, cults, masturbation, sexual frustration, memories of past sexual partners (men and women), mentions of one night stands and in one case unprotected oral sex with a stranger, grief, angst.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Come say hi! [I'm on Tumblr!](https://cassandraleeds.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a week of no leads, Sam goes out to find some answers.
> 
> Warnings/spoilers in chapter end notes:

Sam knows he ought not to, but he lies. He tells Dean he’s going to go to the library and Dean clicks the back button on the browser, afternoon light shining across the table and up the side of him. “Keep your phone on,” he calls. It’s been a week. If there was something after them, Dean says he suspects it would have found them by now or at least left something else as a calling card. Still, he fidgets a bit as Sam leaves. “I mean it. Call me if anything comes up.”

Sam nods, gives Dean a look that he knows Dean will buy. “I will.”

Sam is halfway out the door when Dean stops him. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

Dean’s face lights up with a smile. “Wanna grab a beer after?”

Sam can’t help but smile back at that. This is a new thing they do now. Sam wasn’t old enough for bars before he left for Stanford. Dean had snuck Sam beers when he was a teen a few times but going out with Dean is different. It’s a place where they can sit on top of the walls they’ve built between each other these last few years and just enjoy being brothers again. And it’s welcome.

“Yeah, sure.”

As soon as Sam’s turned the corner and checked Dean hasn’t followed, Sam pulls out his cell phone and the card in his pocket. He feels bad for not telling Dean where he was really going, but he honestly needs the time away from Dean and he knows if Dean knew he was going somewhere where there was real potential information, he’d want to come along. And Sam needs space; the other day Dean decided it was a no-bra-day. Sam had been half glad he didn’t have a boner to hide as of late.

The guy on the other end of the line is chewing gum, tells Sam that Mort’s off already. Call back tomorrow.

“It’s kind of something that can’t wait,” Sam says.

There’s a pause. “What do you need?”

Sam had been planning on this before he even dialed, so he delivers the line like a pro. “It’s... kind of personal,” Sam says and hushes his tone at the last. “I need to talk to him.”

Another pause and Sam wonders just how convincing he is as a flirtatious female caller or if he’s just embarrassing himself, but then, “He’s down the block from the shop, most likely. ‘Arnie’s.’”

Sam thanks him and starts the trek. It takes a good fifteen minutes and Sam is counting every one. He knows he has limited time to get there, convince this guy to tell him whatever he can, and then get back to Dean to gently break the news to him that he found something out from a local before Dean gets worried and starts calling him.

‘Arnie’s’ is a small empty bar that smells cleaner than a bar ought to, Sam thinks. Most likely only populated by regulars, or it’s too early. Sam can’t really tell from the set up, but it seems like it’s been here for at least ten years. The paint on the walls is an unpleasant shade of faded yellow and flaking, and there’s an unusual array of mirrors hanging against it amid odd retro advertisements for different beers.

Mort is easy to spot as he’s the only one in the place at this hour. He’s got a leather Harley Davidson jacket and a slouch, thinning salt-and-pepper long hair in a low ponytail, and from what Sam can tell, not much desire to be bothered. When Sam approaches the bar, slides onto a stool a seat away and orders a Bass, Mort doesn’t look up.

The bartender looks at Sam with skepticism. “You got I.D?”

He reaches back to his wallet and realizes, as he does, that his I.D. currently says he’s male and he’s guessing the picture isn’t going to fly either. Shit.

“Crap, I– you know, I don’t have it on me,” he laughs.

“When’s your birthday?”

“May second, nineteen eighty-three,” Sam replies without a hitch and smiles gingerly.

The girl looks him up and down, and she can’t be much older than Sam. She's blond and petite with a sharpness in her stare, dressed in a button down short sleeved shirt, and wholesome looking as all get out, save the spiraling of ink peeking out from her shirt on her upper arms. She looks unconvinced but then turns to get a glass down.

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” Sam mutters after a moment in Mort’s general direction.

Mort smirks into his beer, the leather of his jacket squeaking as he shifts his weight. “Well, it’s a compliment.” He finishes the last inch of the pint in a swig. “It’s when they stop asking…” he trails off and swallows, pulling his lips tight over his teeth as he exhales, laughs a little, cracks a tattooed knuckle.

“One more, Mort?” The bartender asks as she sets down Sam’s pint over a coaster, and Sam sees another beautiful tattoo on the inside of her forearm. A huntress encased within a crescent moon.

Mort nods resolutely. “Thanks, Mae.”

Sam takes a moment to sip at his beer and be grateful that Mort obviously isn’t leaving anytime soon.

“I’m sorry,” Sam laughs and looks over. “I’m new around here.”

“I figured as much,” Mort says, lips pursed, still not looking over.

“That obvious?”

Mort doesn’t respond but briefly glances up at Mae as she pulls his pint. She’s seems to be concentrating solely on the beer, or acting like that’s all she’s interested in.

Mae takes Mort’s dead glass and sets down his beer, says, “I’m off for a sec. Need anything?”

“Nah.” Mort shakes his head and Mae disappears through the back.

Sam waits until he hears the door close and then takes a deep breath, ready to introduce himself, but Mort speaks first.

“Just passing through?”

Sam falters, kind of taken by surprise at the question, “Yeah, I guess.”

Mort nods and drinks. “Where you from?”

Sam considers this for a second and then decides if this guy is asking questions, he should go with it. Put him at ease. “Uh, California.”

Mort laughs his disbelief. “Everyone’s from ‘California.’”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, everyone who’s ever been to California is a ‘from California.’” Mort says, drinking deep again.

Sam tilts his head and smiles at the joke. He knows what he means, but continuing, he figures the truth here is going to be more successful than fiction. “I was born in Kansas. Was going to Stanford for a while,” Sam says and swallows the tight feeling in his throat at recounting this now, to anyone, stranger or no. “But, I, um. It didn’t work out.”

“Dropped out?”

Sam nods, tightness in his chest, tears pricking his eyes. He really hopes this is just this damn body and its hormones because these intense emotional swings do actually catch him by surprise and make confronting certain things really suck. “My, uh. My girlfriend died actually.” He wipes the tears from his face and stares at his glass. There is a fine line of professionalism in this job, often a hazy one, but Sam knows he’s crossing it. It might win him sympathy points in this case, but it’s putting him in a vulnerable place and that’s not good.

He recalls the words he just used, how it must look to Mort, and feels a cold fear run down his spine; hopefully he’s not a homophobe.

“That’s really rough. I’m sorry,” Mort says sincerely.

Sam nods, mouth tense, swallowing the sob down.

“Hey,” Mort says and Sam sees in his peripheral Mort’s raised his glass. He looks over. “To your girlfriend.”

Sam smiles weakly, his lips not really doing what he tells them to around tears, and wipes his cheeks once more, chest aching as he raises his glass along with Mort’s to touch with a small clink. “Thanks.”

Mort takes a sip and is silent for a long moment before he says, “I, uh, I lost my son about 25 years back,” he bites his lip, voice less rough than it was moment before. “He was barely eighteen.” He shakes his head. “You don’t ever get over that kind of a thing.”

Sam feels relief mixing in with the misery at Mort’s words, hopes it appears as commissary and not the thrill of actually finally getting information about anything.

“What happened?” Sam asks solemnly, and when Mort hesitates, he adds, “Nevermind, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

“No, no,” Mort says, casually waving off the apology. “No, it’s just that no one really knows.” He shrugs. “Well, I imagine Julian knows what happened. But he can’t tell us now.”

Sam waits as Mort settles into deep thought.

“We notice new comers in this town now, you know. We’re careful,” he says. “There was this… I don’t know what you want to call it – a cult, I guess. They called themselves the New Coven of Artemis.”

Witches, Sam thought. Dean’ll be thrilled.

“There were a few of them at first - five maybe, at most. Moved into a huge house off of Brand Street. And at first, the town was wary, you know. Even then, most of us had lived here all our lives, as had our folks. New families would move here every once in a while. But a group of single women? No. And they were different. And, I don’t mean to be crude, but these ladies were something else.” He gestured. “Long hair, long legs. Tall. They had a way… they were self-assured in a way... None of the women in this town back then, All American apple pie types, could have stood up next to the way these women held themselves.”

Sam hangs on every word. He wishes he could take notes, but he’ll just have to hope his memory is good enough to bring most of this back to Dean. He makes it a point to stop drinking to better those odds. 

“These ladies were powerful, you know. One would walk in a room and everybody would just shut up and watch,” Mort continues and after a beat continues. “But the thing was these ladies were _helpful_.” He shakes his head and smiles bitterly. “They worked jobs here. They helped us raise money to rebuild the Town Hall. They got us recognized by the state for our successful small businesses, our factory. They got us funding for our school. All in a matter of months.” He raises his hand, finger pointing to the ceiling and twisting it casually as he turns to Sam. “But that was the turning point. That’s when they started demanding things. Places in the City Council. The Principle position in our school. That’s when we realized just how many of them there were now. Dozens. We don’t know where they even came from. Some of them, a couple, were girls from our town that they had taken into their home. But most of them just mysteriously appeared. And then there was my son,” he falters, nods and looks to Sam. “There were some men, you know... Spellbound.”

“What happened?” Sam asks.

Mort shakes his head. “The City told them no, of course. And then they started protesting. Protesting turned to rioting. So the City Council got together and made it pretty clear, you know. You all gotta leave. If you keep up the rioting, you’re not welcome here anymore. And the next night…” Mort finishes his beer, drinks it down and closes his eyes tight against either the memory or the burn or both. The words come out slow, heavy footed with remorse. “I told Julian to get out of it. I begged him to come home. But he said I just didn’t get it. ‘Denying us is just putting your fingers in your ears.’ Last words he said to me.” Mort takes a deep breath and then rattles off the next part distantly, “The Mayor died the next night in his bed from multiple stab wounds to the groin.”

Sam’s stomach turns as he can’t help but imagine it. “You think they did it?” Sam asks, after a deep baffled breath.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. What I do know – everybody thought it was these witch women and went fuckin’ crazy. Some guys locked them in their mansion and burned it to the ground.”

Sam’s eyes go wide.

“Of course, it was filed as an electrical fire. An accident. But everyone knew.”

Sam looks ahead of him. He tries to piece together how any of this could lead back to Dean and his predicament, but the picture is still fuzzy and might still be completely unrelated. A tragic coincidence. Most towns have a nasty secret somewhere. “And your son passed in the fire?”

“Not sure. No bodies left there when they searched through the ashes. Said the fire was just that hot.”

There is a long quiet moment where Sam can’t think of anything appropriate to say, and despite the reasonable part of his brain supplying healthy doubt, there’s a nagging feeling he’s gotten a piece of the puzzle here. It fits somewhere.

Mort looks down into the suds in his glass. “I don’t know what’s worse – knowing someone’s gone, or not knowing for sure if they’re gone.”

A vivid memory of two years ago rushes back to Sam unbidden: A night he was alone after that party where the girl he’d brought back to his dorm for what turned into a one night stand had left in a hurry, Sam still buzzed and empty, and suddenly so homesick it hurt to breathe. His phone lay in his hand, Dean’s number in his contacts shining dimly on the screen, his finger on the call button, knowing deep down he wasn’t going to press it. He knew Dean wouldn’t call either. So he lay down in the dark alone, pressing the phone to his ear as he let the alcohol dim his self-awareness for a bit. He spoke quietly into the receiver to a Dean that wasn’t on the other end, whispered words he can’t remember now.

He gets back to the motel and Dean is still at the laptop. He smiles up at Sam, and Sam looks away before the blinding strange nature of it knocks him sideways again. Dean doesn’t notice though, only asks pleasantly, “How was research?”

Here comes the truth.

“I met somebody who knew something.”

The smile is instantly gone from Dean’s face. “And you didn’t call me?”

“Sorry, man, it kind of just happened.” Sam shrugs and sits down in front of him.

Sam knows what tone to use to take Dean’s edge off, but Dean still looks offended. “So,” he says, irritation soaking the word, “what d’you get?”

Sam goes over the story again, everything he can remember that Mort had said and his own guesses at what it might mean. “So dead witches. Ghosts, maybe?” Sam wonders out loud. “But I’ve never heard of ghosts using curses.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we were surprised,” Dean says rubbing his thumb absently over the pretty flesh of his lower lip and then biting at it. Sam’s only aware he’s been staring when Dean looks up, meets his eye for a startling moment. Dean frowns. “But you said there were no bones.”

Sam nods. “We should go check the place maybe anyway. See if we can find anything.”

Dean is typing as Sam speaks. He shakes his head and spins the computer toward him so Sam can see the monitor. Dean leans back. There’s a picture of a 'grand opening' sign in front of a shiny new apartment complex with the same address in large cascading numbers on the side.

“Damn it,” Sam mutters.

That night, feeling more exhausted by the dead end than either of them admit, they go out to a bar like they’d planned earlier. It’s a few blocks from the motel and seedier than the one Sam had been in earlier, more people, filling the air with sounds of drunken loud conversation and the sharp click-clack of pool. The place itself is a perfumed mix of stale and fresh cigarette smoke, old beer, sweat, and under it, every so often, a slightly sour smell of bleach.

Dean orders a couple drinks for both of them and Sam takes his slow at first but then speeds up, compelled to keep up with Dean.

The beer hits fast. Sam hadn’t taken into account that he was over half a foot shorter and probably a good eighty pounds lighter than he was a week ago. But it’s a good buzz. He feels loose and warm and, strangely enough, okay. In the buzz, this body doesn’t seem odd for long moments at a time: the cushion of the bar stool under his ass, the lightness of his limbs, the feeling of this softer skin under his fingers as he runs them over the back of his forearm absently. It’s still strange and as soon as he shifts his weight he’s back to momentarily feeling like he’s wearing someone else’s slightly-too-small clothes. But he forgets off and on, and the fact that he’s been in a constant state of mild arousal for the last few days watching Dean doesn’t seem like the worst thing right now. He presses himself down and shifts himself against the stool just slightly, feels a throb of pleasure jolt through him, and enjoys it secretly for an instant.

He looks over at Dean, watches him nurse his third beer, gracefully holding the neck of it in strong fingers, notes how the eyes around them are drawn to Dean no matter what sex he is. Sam has always wondered at this – how people are immediately enthralled by Dean. It wasn’t just the fact that Dean was good looking, because Sam understood that, and too well. But Sam was also well aware that he had twenty two years of complicated emotions involving Dean to inspire his own obsessions. Everyone else – they had no idea who Dean was or what he was about, but they stared all the same. They fell into bed with him as easily as, well, falling. And Sam was oh so familiar with seeing that instantaneous shift in people’s expressions, the intimidated and intrigued once-overs from guys and girls alike, and tried to ignore it along with his own spikes of jealousy when Dean’s gaze would inevitably turn away as he sent out the smiles that would reel those strangers in.

But tonight Dean’s gaze is all for Sam, light in his eyes like they share a secret. Which they do. They always do. Sam can’t help but fall into the delicious place that is Dean’s undivided attention and pleased gaze. It’s better than any place in the world.

“I bet they think we’re girlfriends,” Dean grins, leaning into Sam’s space. Sam grins and looks around nervously when Dean doesn’t back up. It’s thrilling and awkward and wonderful.

Dean laughs this little laugh, shifts forward, opening his legs, and then leaning in closer, whispers, “What do you think?”

Sam can’t really think past the fact that Dean is inches from him, breath malty and alcoholic and mingling with his own. Dean’s mouth parts on an unsure smile. The soft sweet hairs along his hairline are a breath away, and suddenly all Sam can think about is what they’d feel like to pet. Sam glances down quickly, and the rise and fall of Dean’s small breasts pressed up in his tank top makes him nearly wince. Sam finds a place to look past Dean’s head as he lets out a baffled laugh. “I don’t know.”

“Look at them,” Dean says quieter, breath ghosting over Sam’s cheek. Sam looks around them at the patrons, mostly men trying not to stare as Dean leans in even closer, words brushing over the shell of Sam’s ear. “You don’t think they’re thinking about it?”

Sam exhales a small shaky breath that he cuts off. The aching between his legs is stupefying, his heartbeat is so fast it hurts. Dean is walking a dangerous line and doesn’t even know it. He can’t possibly know it. Sam holds his hand in a fist in an effort to not lift it. In the state he’s in he’s not sure whether he’d push Dean away or pull him in.

“I bet the pervs are hard just thinking about the things we’d do.”

It’s meant to be a joke, Sam can tell by Dean’s choice of words, but Sam hears a surprising tremble in Dean’s voice, wonders if he imagines that wavering in Dean’s breath on the last few words. Sam manages to pull back to read Dean’s expression. Dean is just barely smirking and looking off then slowly up to Sam, a laugh as he shakes his head and turns, pulling out of Sam’s space and taking the heat with him. He finishes his beer in one long gulping swig, muscles of his neck moving fluidly, a wave of efficiency. Sam swallows too, but dryly.

Dean looks around them once more with a grin and Sam relaxes slightly.

“I think I’m good,” Dean says and gets up, staggering slightly. “Hell, I’m more than good.” He pulls out his wallet and counts his cash, leaves enough for both of them and what looks like a good tip, and then sways, off balanced, as he gets his coat back on.

Sam is pretty much in the same boat, and it seems to be going through a swell. “Shit,” Sam laughs as he stands and quickly catches himself on Dean’s shoulder. “Drunk.”

“Yeah, you are,” Dean says as they push through the doors and away from the eyes of patrons and Dean beams a smile that leaves them all in the dust. “‘Cheap Date Sammy.’”

Sam mocks offense and then giggles. “You are _just_ as drunk.”

“Am not, drunky.”

Sam leans on the brick wall bent over in laughter. Dean walks back and swings Sam’s arm over his shoulder.

“Come on, Sasquatch, back to the motel,” Dean coaxes as they turn the corner, motel in sight. “I guess I can’t call you that now you have boobs.”

“Shut up.”

“Amazonian? Does that work?”

Sam can’t breathe he’s laughing so hard.

Dean leans him against the wall of the motel next to their room, and Sam is still breathless with laughter as Dean looks through his pocket for the key.

“I’m gonna call you that from now on, you know that, right?” Dean says. “Tits or no tits.”

Sam breathes deep, puts his head back against stucco, “You can call me whatever you want.”

And when Dean looks over their eyes meet slowly. Sam feels his heart drop into his stomach.

“You always do,” Sam says quieter.

Dean’s smile has disappeared. And there is something in Dean’s gaze that flares and breaks right before he’s there in one step, pushing himself fully against Sam, hands roughly cupping Sam’s face and pulling Sam’s mouth down to his.

Fear and arousal hit Sam in equal parts, and he inhales with surprise around the kiss. He’s lost count of how many times he’s almost died in his life now, but for a split-second his heart stops and he thinks, hysterically, this might just be what does it. He makes an involuntary sound in his throat, shocked and hungry. He’s frozen as Dean frantically paws his small hands on Sam’s cheeks to pull Sam down even more to suck him in just that much deeper. Sam’s hands hover over Dean’s arms, and then his brain catches up. He roughly pushes Dean away.

For a moment Dean just teeters there, with this look on his face - horror and disbelief barely concealed. And Sam can’t find words to express just how wrong that was, just how unfair that was, how angry he is at Dean right now. He’s never felt so sick.

Dean finds the key and slowly unlocks the door. He walks inside without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Lying, continued descriptions of dysphoria, incestuous desire, mentions of deaths of loved ones by fire that was likely murder, cults, mention of murder, brief mention of genital mutilation, grief, drinking to intoxication, cisnormative gender based teasing, denying sexual advances.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Come say hi! [I'm on Tumblr!](https://cassandraleeds.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being hurt and angry for days, Sam comes to terms with his own feelings and tries to move them past the uncomfortable place they are now by facing the issue. They look into the only lead they have.
> 
> Warnings/spoilers in end notes.

They say nothing to each other about it the next morning. They talk about the case. They read obituaries from the fire, wincing at the computer screen through their mild hangovers as they make lists of names and notes about these people who are almost so untraceable now it’s like they were smoke on the wind. They don’t say much at all as they research, that day and the next. But Sam can barely stand it, whatever place Dean has propelled them into. It’s _his_ fault. Sam hadn’t done anything, dammit. It had nearly killed him, but he hadn’t done anything.

For years.

And here Dean just goes and kisses him because he’s itching from, what, a week of lack of sex, and Sam being in some way not Sam and dammit. Fuck. Fuck Dean.

It’s not like Sam’s not horny too – disturbed, but now constantly aroused by the endless replay of drunken lips on his, and _Dean’s_ lips. He’s just that much more frustrated at the fact that he doesn’t know how to do anything about it by himself.

All his showers are cold now.

At least the whole interaction killed Dean’s jokes about Sam beating off. At least there’s that.

Days of nothing. Days of simmering anger. They order dinner delivered and even that becomes an argument.

Five days in, after an afternoon of doing little but want to punch the wall, Sam gets up and turns on the light, night creeping in on them even with the sun still low in the sky, says, “I’ve got my phone. I won’t be long.” Dean doesn’t respond, Sam notices, just turns away and goes into the bathroom.

Sam makes his way down still warm asphalt, the road feeling comforting under his feet. He feels a twinge of guilt though - he sees Dean’s posture as he left clearly in his head again, and then again, and the twinge starts to ache. He’s not really been thinking about Dean’s situation in all of this in any sympathetic way, and that weighs on him heavily now Sam’s away from him.

They’d both been drunk. At its core, this was a mistake, and if anything Dean’s at least in an uncomfortable place too. Knowing Dean, he's hiding it, but he's probably drowning in regret. And now Sam is raking him over the coals. For what? It was a drunken, stupid accident. It’s not Dean's fault his younger brother has a complex.

Maybe it’s the warm air and finally being free of that room, a space filled with Dean’s smell and all the soft, curving, supple parts of him. Or maybe it’s the scent of the hot landscape surrounding him now, the wide open space by their motel that leads out of this town if they could only leave making him feel like he’s in the present tense instead of reliving the same few moments of Dean’s lips on his over and over. Whatever it is, something is finally releasing the tension in Sam’s chest like a fist relaxing open.

Sam takes a deep breath. He forgives Dean. When he really looks at it outside of his own self-loathing, forgiveness is simple. And he’s even forgiving himself a little bit, he realizes. Because tolerating himself won’t be enough, he knows. It just leads back to hating himself eventually, and when that spills over, resenting Dean. And what good has that ever done them? Dean is feeling guilty and hurt for a mistake they both made, because Sam had made the mistake too. He fed the fire in his gut for Dean in that bar as he lost himself in booze. He let it grow until he had been all over him. He had _wanted_ that kiss. It’s not like Dean forced himself on Sam. Because truly, Sam pushed away because _he_ wouldn’t let himself kiss his brother – an act that deep down he had hungered for like nothing else for so long but had convinced himself out of self-preservation was impossible. He couldn’t deal with it actually happening. And Dean had stopped. He’d respectively backed off when Sam denied him.

Simpler, they were both drunk. People do stupid things when they’re drunk.

They need to get past this. They wouldn’t be the first siblings with embarrassing issues, right? Or things they never speak of again?

Sam sits down on the sidewalk and it dawns on him that he couldn’t let Dean kiss him because it would mean less to Dean than it would to him. He wouldn’t ever love Sam like Sam loved Dean, and if Sam let himself have even a taste, he’d want so much more than he could ever have from his brother. His eyes sting with tears he blinks back.

He breathes deep again. The dipping sun is making the trees turn dark, their colors meshing and dimming to shadows. The sky turns gold, pink, then foggy blue.

But it’s not going away.

This feeling Sam has for his brother is never going away.

“I love my brother.”

Sam says the words out loud and swallows around his throat getting tight.

“I love my brother.” This time it’s quieter, and a bird sings back from a tree close by.

It sounds impatient.

Dean is sitting by untouched Chinese food when Sam gets back. He looks worried and then angry.

“I tried to call you, where were you?”

“Turned my phone off.”

Dean goes through about four faces before he settles on quiet, sarcastic rage. “Great, great.”

Sam stops on his way to his bed and pulls together what courage he has for this. Someone has to do it. Nothing is going to change unless they deal with this.

“Listen,” Sam starts and when he meets Dean’s eyes Sam knows that Dean knows what’s coming.

And, predictably, Dean wants nothing to do with it.

“Now, Sammy—“

“Dean—“

“Do we need to do this?”

“Let me just talk,” Sam protests quietly. “Please.”

Dean shakes his head but is silent as he sits down on the end of his bed.

Sam’s heart is a hammer with all the ways this could go, just how bad this could get, how much he won’t say, how much he will, how he really fucking hopes he doesn’t start crying again.

“I know what happened--” Sam starts, notices the purse of Dean’s lips, his slight turn away, “I know it was weird, and we were drunk. And I know it doesn’t mean anything to you, but it—not that it meant something to me, just—I know it didn’t mean anything. I want us to be okay. Are we okay?”

Dean is looking at him like he’s still waiting for him to speak.

“What?” Sam asks finally.

Dean laughs, but there’s no mirth in it.

“What?” Now Sam is annoyed.

Dean gets up and turns his back on him. “That’s a hell of an apology, really, Sam.”

Sam feels his mouth open and close. “Apology?” Sam fumes, barely keeping his voice down. “You think _I_ should apologize to _you_?”

Dean turns finally, shrugs. “You haven’t exactly been much of a joy to live with the last few days.”

Sam’s baffled.

“You _kissed me!”_

Dean winces. “It’s not like you weren’t—” he stops himself, readjusts his weight which, even now on a smaller frame, means nothing good. “You were acting like you wanted me to.”

Sam feels his face flush, and, yeah, he’s going to say something he knows is stupid and a low-ish, very likely untrue blow, but he’s losing ground. “Is this how you are with girls?” Sam spits. “You just go for it when it _seems_ like they want it?”

Dean lifts his hands in disbelief. “Oh, my God, Sam.”

“Have you forgotten you’re my _brother_?”

Dean’s gaze goes stone cold with his tone. “Have you?”

There is a long pause where the room suddenly feels much too hot. The frustration and tension around them is so dense it has a flavor.

And Dean looks really, _really_ pretty when he’s angry.

Sam puts his hands over his face and moans into them pitifully, “This is so weird.”

He’s never felt so trapped in his life, and that’s saying something. He can’t get away from this - he can’t get away from Dean and he certainly can’t get away from who he is. And now he’s trapped in a body that doesn’t fit on top of it all and his brother doesn’t fucking _get it_. He just _doesn’t._ He _can’t._

Sam starts when he feels a hand on his arm. Dammit, he’s crying.

“Sam, come on.” Dean whispers, and it’s soft and breathy, and Sam aches, starving with need. “I know it’s hard for you. I’m sorry, okay?”

Dean is too close, and he’s touching him far too much.

“Sam, look at me, come on.” And it’s still Dean’s soothing tone of voice - it’s still Dean. And if Dean can make the move, why can’t he? Damn it all, why can’t Sam? Why can’t Sam do this to him?

Sam’s leans in and puts his mouth on Dean’s, off center, right at its corner. It’s messy, and Sam gasps as he gives in to what he’s done and feels Dean give just slightly back in surprise. Sam moves the kiss into a hard direct one, still with intent. This isn’t on accident. Sam would have found a way to avoid it if he wasn’t so off his axis, he knows. But he’s doing this. Sober. God, he’s kissing Dean.

Dean parts from it first but Sam’s hands grip Dean’s button up shirt to keep him close, and he can feel the thundering pulse of Dean’s heart under his fists, the heaviness in the shift of his breathing.

Dean’s not saying anything and neither of them are moving away. For a long moment there is nothing Sam can comprehend but breath and overwhelming fear of rejection mixing with bone deep want.

“Don’t say it,” Sam pleads, breathlessly. “Don’t say you’re sorry you kissed me.”

It’s a rushed move when Dean cups his neck - Sam half expects to be pushed away the same way he'd rejected Dean - but Dean covers Sam’s lips with his thumb and rubs like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Sam makes a desperate sound as Dean pushes the soft curve of his chest up to Sam’s with a shaky inhale and Sam groans. It’s unbearable.

“Fuck, I’m so horny it hurts,” Sam admits on a whine. “Can’t do it—can’t fucking get myself to…” He feels like he’s coming to Dean with the most embarrassing scraped knee in the world, but he’s beyond caring, because how much more embarrassed can you be once you’ve kissed your brother?

“Okay, Sammy, okay.” Dean soothes, though Sam can hear tension in the rough rasp of his voice, higher, but still so much Dean’s as he rubs his hands over Sam’s shoulders, hands that are much smaller than any fantasy of him Sam’s ever had. They slide down to his waist and Sam whimpers.

Dean whispers, “’Cause of Jess?” Like it’s a safe secret Sam can tell here. Like it will make the way Sam is acting okay because he’s not right in the head right now. Like it’s excusable.

Sam feels tears trying to start up again, because that’s part of it, and it would be so easy to lie and say that's all it is - just grief and guilt over Jess, and being so filled with rage at where his life has gone it’s hard to breathe sometimes. Just spare himself the humiliation by sidestepping it and using grief as a scapegoat. But he can’t say it.

“That feel good?” Dean asks as he strokes Sam’s arms and Sam breathes out, wants to scream that this isn’t a game - if Dean’s going to call prank on this it would kill Sam right now, he’s wound so tight.

Sam leans forward and puts his head on Dean’s shoulder instead, smells him through the fabric, and lets Dean touch him like this, hands running over Sam’s back and arms, down to the crest of his ass, lets every part of him that’s been starved of physical touch soak this in, lets this body thrum with it until he’s soaking.

Dean moves his hands to Sam’s waist again and rests them there, and Sam pulls himself together and straightens himself slightly, but keeps his eyes carefully elsewhere from Dean. He feels wrecked and knows Dean can see, knows he can only hide so much from him, and there are some things Sam hasn’t confessed yet and really doesn’t want to.

“You wet?” Dean asks, hands on Sam’s hip, and Sam nods, closing his eyes. “Can I see?” Dean tries, and Sam starts to shake his head, because all his life he’s been ready to deny what he wants, but then Dean is running his hands over Sam’s hipbones and around to his stomach and any shred of sense Sam had left is gone. He gasps mouth wide as Dean’s fingers brush over his belly and move to unbuckle his jeans and then tease at the waistband of his panties.

“Stripes,” he whispers, and Sam can hear the smile there. “’S pretty, Sammy.”

Sam can’t help it – he moans softly, breathy and lost.

Dean works his hand lower, fingers running torturously slow down over the front of Sam’s cotton underwear, lingering as he gets closer, closer, and Sam bucks reflexively and nods. Permission granted, Dean’s hand moves gently down to completely cover the whole of Sam, wet and aching, and Sam sucks in through his teeth and sways.

“Damn,” Dean grits out, rubs the pads of his index and middle finger over Sam’s underwear, right over his clit, his touch slippery and perfect, and Sam bites back a shout.

“Dean…”

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Sammy. Come on.” And now Dean’s fingers are working a gradually quickening rhythm, those skilled fingers that have done this to hundreds of other girls, but never mind – he’s doing it to Sam. He’s doing this to _him_.

Dean’s good, he’s really good at this. Sam’s knees start to go weak as he feels it build in him like an earthquake, he leans forward again for balance, moans low into Dean’s shoulder, and it’s still so fucking odd, because it’s a girl’s voice, and Dean’s smell is a girl’s smell, and yet it couldn’t _not_ be Dean even if he wanted to make it easier for his conscience. This is Dean in every way that matters, taking him to the edge because he can’t stand to see his younger brother this fucking miserably desperate. And Sam loves him so much, he loves him _so much_. It floods him – builds and build and crests like a tidal wave - and he muffles his cries into Dean’s shirt, coming so hard he sees stars.

He’s legs must have gone out, because the next thing Sam knows Dean is to lowering Sam down to the floor.

Sam hangs on though. He hangs on to Dean’s shoulders and sobs so hard he can’t speak. Dean's voice is soft and enveloping as he shushes him, and he rocks Sam just barely until unconsciousness blurs Sam’s vision and he sleeps.

Sam wakes up to a complimentary continental breakfast and no Dean.

He doesn’t remember getting into bed, or getting out of his jeans for that matter. What he _can_ remember hits him like a semi. He feels like he was beaten or he’s run fifty miles or he’s coming down with the flu. He knows it happened though. He let Dean do it. And after so long of not letting himself even hug Dean for too long, it leaves him feeling so empty and sore he can’t focus on much but the sheets under his hand.

Dean had his fingers right over-- Sam feels that free falling feeling in his stomach and covers his face with his hands, groaning into the pillow.

Well, that certainly was not how he had planned the confrontation to go.

He lies there staring through his fingers at blurry white cotton, head hurting trying to bend around this new reality; how the hell are they going to go on after this? It can’t happen again. No matter how much he might want it to. It absolutely cannot happen again.

Dean comes in and Sam fights not to pull the sheets over his head.

“You’re awake.” He’s cheerful. He’s not veiling anything that Sam can tell. It’s startlingly genuine seeming considering the last 24 hours. “Sleep okay?” Doesn’t he remember? For a moment Sam doubts his own sanity. Why is Dean so casual about this?

Sam wants to respond to save face, but can’t seem to find his voice.

“It’s raining,” Dean continues. “I thought we’d take it easy.”

Which is exactly what Sam didn’t want to hear. That means he’s stuck in with Dean. And that will be anything but comfortable for him, even if Dean seems strangely fine.

“You hungry?” Dean says, and sits in the space of bed behind Sam’s knees. Sam sinks down with the slight weight until the backs of his thighs touch Dean’s back and even through the blanket the sensation is enough to send a jolt right to his groin. He scoots over and when gravity brings him right back to Dean, gives up and sighs, defeated.

If he pretends he’s sleepy maybe Dean will let go of this attempt at friendly morning conversation and they can go back to conveniently forgetting, well, everything that needs forgetting.

Dean places his hand to Sam’s hip over the blanket and pats, and Sam tenses slightly. He really wasn’t expecting this easiness from Dean, or whatever is behind it.

“I know it probably isn’t really worth much, but I’m really sorry about what I said last night.” It’s soft and sincere and Dean’s hand is just resting there on Sam’s hip. What it’s doing to Sam is anything but passive though. “I’m doing my best, Sammy. I want it to be like it was, you know? And this is an obstacle, for sure, but we’ve had a hell of a lot worse dished at us.”

Sam feels his mouth tighten.

“But I promised you, and I keep my promises. I’ll figure out a way to get this fixed, Sam. I will. I’ll tear this whole town apart if I have to.”

Dean’s hand has started rubbing a slow circle over his hip and Sam is measuring out each breath, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s already wet and throbbing between his legs. He doesn’t want Dean to know because he’s out of excuses now. But he’s pretty sure his heavy pulse is beating right under Dean’s hand. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“This hasn’t exactly been easy for me either.”

Dean’s fingers trace the hem of Sam’s shirt, little fingers running over the vulnerable skin of his waist, and Sam can’t take anymore. He whimpers into his pillow and pivots his hips helplessly, “Damn it,” gritted out despite himself. Dean’s hand shockingly pushes completely under Sam’s shirt. “Fuck,” Sam swears.

Dean breathes out in a rush, stuttering, “-- this okay?” as Sam turns and pushes the covers down.

Dean grasps Sam’s hips, and stares down at his hands on Sam’s body, baffled. He smooths them over Sam’s stomach and Sam grabs Dean’s hand and pushes it down.

“If you don’t do it again, I’ll fucking kill you, I swear,” Sam says, and it comes out sounding so pitifully desperate and nonthreatening, Dean actually laughs, and then starts up a gentle sweep of his knuckles over the wet fabric of Sam’s underwear. Sam bites back a moan and thrusts as Dean’s fingers start a massage of his clit, a deliberate, teasing attack on the last of Sam’s control. And Sam chokes, legs falling open for more.

Sam pushes away the thoughts for now, he pushes all the logical “don’t”s away. He focuses on Dean and this feeling and letting it all go for him. He’s going to let this be his, even if the emotion goes one way. So be it.

Dean slips two fingers in through the side of Sam’s panties where he’s so turned on even Dean can’t seem to keep it to himself. “So fucking wet, Sam.” He runs his fingers around the bud of him until he’s shaking. When Sam opens his eyes in frustration, Dean is smiling just slightly.

Sam hisses, “Is this a game to you? Jesus.”

Dean shakes his head with a brutal little flick over him that leaves Sam gasping, “Don’t worry, Sammy,” Dean breathes, the edge to his now softer voice darker than Sam’s ever heard it. “I know what I’m doing.” Dean moves his fingers down and traces the opening of him and Sam feels a sensation he’s never felt growing deep between his legs, a need he’s never had before now deep inside him, demanding.

“Fuck…” Sam manages as the need climbs, pushes his hips forward in this new type of thrust he’s just beginning to get used to.

“How’s that?”

Sam can’t respond except with a gasp.

“You like how that feels?” Dean runs his fingers around the edge of him again gently, teasingly, and then rubs right between, right at the threshold, and Sam actually shifts down to try and chase what he wants. He feels empty without it, he realizes.

“Sammy?”

“In,” is all Sam can choke out. “ _In!_ ”

Sam can swear he feels Dean shiver beside him before he slowly pushes one finger inside, and then Sam can barely think enough to breathe. “Oh, god.” It hurts. It feels foreign, but then Dean rubs his thumb over Sam’s clit again and Sam hears his own strange new voice whine high and long and Dean is breathing harsh over him. Sam’s eyes shoot open. Dean’s skin is dewy with sweat, eyes dark, mouth open. He meets Sam’s eyes, licking his lips, as he does something inside Sam that makes him feel like he’s hit the ceiling and Sam can’t take it anymore. He thrusts into Dean’s fingers and it’s completely different than any sensations he’s felt or any movement he’s ever made to feel relief, but it takes Dean’s fingers deep into him to pivot just so.

Dean’s breath hitches slightly and Sam gets it, sure. After all, he’s not really Sam to Dean right now. Dean is knuckle deep in pussy, why wouldn’t he be happy? Sam smiles to himself actually at that, though the amusement has a bitter tang to it. Dean shines a smile back at him, eyes flicking away from his to watch Sam’s body react to his fingers beckoning inside him, his thumb rubbing over Sam’s clit and bringing Sam closer and closer to the edge, and just when Sam can’t take anymore, Dean whispers over him, rough and raunchy, “You gonna come, Sammy?”

Sam can’t respond, because he _is_. With a surprised shout, he’s shot over the precipice, and he rides Dean’s pumping fingers, the blinding apex of it taking him just that much higher, until it leaves him breathless and lost, aftershocks spasming through him.

Sam sucks in a small inhale as Dean slides his finger out of him. The loss stings a little, bit but not as much as the absolutely crushing embarrassment of how incredibly easy it was to fuck up again. _How?_ Sam pulls the nearest pillow over his head and moans pitifully, “Jesus Christ.”

He can hear Dean wiping his hands off, feels him straighten.

“I don’t think I have an excuse for that one,” Sam says miserably from under the pillow. “This is so fucking… I don’t know what’s fucking wrong with m—“

Sam is momentarily blinded by light as Dean pulls the pillow off him, holds Sam’s face in his hands, his fingers against his cheek still barely wet from him, and he presses his mouth to Sam’s, chasing away the guilt with a thrilling warmth that fills every inch of him. Sam sucks him in, takes it, returns the insistence of Dean’s kiss with his own, and some reckless snap in him has him reach up to pull Dean down against him. Dean is panting, looking down at Sam, and Sam finally finds it easy to look back. The guilt riding along with Sam is a distant hum as they consider each other, bodies pressed close.

“Sam—“ Dean starts breathlessly.

Sam wants to stop him from whatever ultimatum is about to take away how good this feels. For the first time he has something so close to what he wants and Dean is about to ruin this, isn’t he? Or rather call it what it is, which is pretty much the same thing. Sam opens his mouth to stop him, but Dean puts his finger to Sam’s lips and stops him from interrupting.

“This doesn’t have to happen anymore if you don’t want it to. I swear. I’m a horny son of a bitch, but you say the word and I will be a perfect gentleman for as long as it takes to fix this. I won’t bring it up ever again.” His finger is now tracing the line of Sam’s lip and he’s watching it, completely transfixed. “But, god, I’ll be honest, I really hope that’s not the case.”

Sam braves sticking his tongue out to lick at Dean’s finger and Dean closes his eyes, breathing out, and slowly, tentatively pushes his finger just past Sam’s lips. Sam takes Dean’s wrist in his hand, feels Dean’s heady nervousness as he waits for Sam’s next move in answer.

Sam leads Dean’s finger into his mouth and sucks and Dean actually grunts watching him do it. He works another finger in and Sam sucks them together running his tongue over them. Dean makes an exasperated sound as he smiles bashfully. “Making me really miss my dick, Sammy.” And it shouldn’t probably make Sam laugh around Dean’s fingers but it does.

Dean laughs too, breathlessly, and Sam hums and sucks again, relishes the small bitten off whine Dean makes, how blown his pupils are when he meets Sam’s gaze. He’s so vulnerable when he’s this excited. Sam feels a pang of desire flow through him, marvels at how he’s ready to go again already, damn. Perks.

Dean reaches down between his own legs with his free hand and then stammers, “You don’t mind do you?” And Sam’s heart goes into his throat as he shakes his head quickly, eager.

It’s out of sight whatever Dean’s doing to himself, but his breath changes and the sounds coming from him get needy and rough as he tangles his fingers in Sam’s hair, and with a guttural sound falls forward over Sam, his mouth a breath from Sam’s neck. “Fuck…” It’s broken off and gasping and Dean tenses with a sound like he’s been punched as he peaks, the sound so familiar to Sam and yet not, so heartbreakingly Dean, so like the thousands of times Sam’s heard Dean’s desperate, deep cries of pain during a hard hunt, or in exertion working on the Impala, and yet completely new this wanton and from the willowy throat of a girl.

Dean collapses onto Sam and Sam reaches up to tentatively hold him, lets himself touch his back and feel Dean under his fingers, Dean’s lungs heaving right beneath ribs, to have the soft press of his chest against him, both their hearts hammering in duet as the world settles and focuses back to cold reality.

Dean pulls away first of course. Of course he pulls away, and sits up to stare at the window and try to pull that damn nonchalant charisma out of his back pocket as usual. “When in Rome, huh?”

But Sam reaches over and takes his hand and the mask falls off Dean again. He looks sick. And Sam is right there with him. Dean pulls his hand away slowly to nervously run his hand through his own hair.

If Sam secretly didn’t have it bad for his brother before now, as of this moment he’s fucking doomed. He wishes he could kiss this look off of Dean face. Dean obviously feels disgusted with himself, Sam thinks, and maybe he’s repulsed by Sam too right now, though he’d never say it. Dean doesn’t know though how disgusted with Sam he _should_ be. After all the last moments were a dream come true for Sam, not the horny quick-fix it probably looked like. But it’s safer to let it be misunderstood. It’s cutting their losses really.

Sam feels like he’s been punched in the chest, but missed when it started hurting.

“We, uh, clean up. Do some research,” Dean says finally, and Sam nods.

That night at eleven, they head out to search the apartment building built over the site of the fire as much as they can in secret. They figure there’s at least some iota of a chance something’s there, and that’s more than any other lead they have at the moment.

They grab dinner at a Carl’s Jr and eat in the car and Sam tries to ignore how the space between them seems different, the energy off. The car seems altered by it even, like it’s not the home they shared for years somehow. Sam sighs as quietly around a chicken finger as possible.

Dean still notices. “You tired?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says, because he is, in about a thousand ways.

Dean swallows the last of his burger and rolls up the wrapper into the bag. “We won’t stay out too late then.”

“No, it’s okay—“ Sam protests.

“No, Sammy, I know, long day.” Dean looks over, throws him a look that’s nearly paternal. “You tell me if you’re fading, okay?”

Sam smiles over softly, warmth spreading through him that’s not just from the too hot coffee. He looks away, but the smile is stuck, and he relents, “Yeah, okay.”

Dean turns the key and the Impala rumbles to life and soon the smooth road is beneath their aching bones.

It’s definitely been a while since the apartment went up. 1998 was the date of the opening in the article online, but it had mentioned it had been being built on and off for over ten years because of “expected zoning issues.” Ivy covers a good part of the left edge of the building nearly to the roof and reaches across to touch at the name of the complex that states itself in silver, swooping font: “Blue Sky Apartments.” The paint job isn’t the turquoise/white combo it had been years back in the picture. As far as Sam can tell in the dark it’s a sort of green and light gray. In this light though, that sort of neutral pale shade could be a lot of possible colors.

Sam notes the sign out front says that they currently have no vacancies.

They park a block down and across in the comfortable darkness between streetlamps which are blocked out mostly by trees anyway - far enough away to go through the trunk without looking suspicious, but close enough to the place to easily run back if they have to make a quick escape.

Sam checks his knife is in his pocket, puts his piece in his waistband, and takes a flashlight from Dean as Dean then strains to reach the EMF detectors that slipped to the back of the trunk. “Damn it,” Dean hisses at his shorter arms and Sam swallows a laugh.

“We split up?” Sam asks.

Dean’s face pulls a little, thinking it over while he tests the detector. “Yeah,” he relents. “Probably quicker. I’ll take the back.”

Sam nods, zips up his hoodie.

There is very little you can do to deter a cat that wants your attention. Sam has been accompanied by a very fluffy, greyish-gold cat for the last half hour, rubbing on his legs and every so often making very sweet little sounds of intrigue. Sam would find it adorable, really, if he wasn’t sort of preoccupied with being stealthy. He leans down and scratches the beast under its jaw. There’s a collar under all that fur. Good.

He runs the EMF all around, earplug giving him nothing but static. Nothing even remotely off. For a place where dozens of people perished in a fire, it’s unnervingly clear. There’s nothing really but the sound of crushing ivy under his shoes, the soft sounds of late night life coming from inside – TVs turned down low, dishes being washed, crickets. The sweet scent of honeysuckle on the air is homey and seductive.

Movement in his peripheral has Sam looking up to find Dean walking quickly around from the front of the complex. Sam raises his chin slightly in greeting.

Dean holds out his hand. “All I found,” he whispers and Sam looks down at Dean’s cell, where there’s a picture he snapped of something. It’s graffiti in front of a door - what looks like a three deep scratches in the shape of an arrow. “Doesn’t lead to anything except the stairs to the manager’s apartment.”

Sam frowns and hums.

“How about you?” Dean asks.

“Nothing,” Sam says, hushed, shaking his head. “I mean, this.” He points down to the animal winding through his legs.

Dean grins. It’s been long known that since Sam was a kid, if there was a stray animal around, it followed Sam home.

“Somebody’s though,” he says. The warmth of cat affection is welcome. It dilutes the hopeless feeling of yet another mostly useless search. “Let’s go.”

They walk out towards to street and something makes Sam turn and take the place in. He breathes deep and scans it. Something’s there, something different.

“Sam?”

And then it hits him. It’s not what’s new, it’s what’s missing.

“Dean, do you remember a sort of sign next to the name on the apartment? In the article, I mean? Like a decoration where the ivy is now?”

Dean makes a sort of ‘huh’ sound. “Yeah , maybe.”

Sam takes a chance and shines his flashlight towards the upper left of the building where the ivy clings next to the sign.

There's a metal shine that calls back through the brush - a thin crescent moon next to the word.

A chill runs down Sam's spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/spoilers: Anger, some questionable dubious consent apologism on Sam's part, sexual frustration, some humiliation, arguments, mentions of grief, incestuous desire, incest, clothed sexual intercourse, heavy petting as well as penetrative sexual intercourse, dirty talk, begging, guilt, angst,
> 
> Thank you for reading! Come say hi! [I'm on Tumblr!](https://cassandraleeds.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam experiences one of the more common downsides of having a uterus. There's chocolate and Dean though.
> 
> Warnings/spoilers in chapter end notes.

“Moons are one of the most ancient symbols in human history, Dean. They go back to the Neolithic period. Further,” Sam’s shaking his leg and biting his fingernail. He’s itching with this. This is something, he knows it. “Not only that - cultures all over the world have created them, relating to the feminine, Goddesses...”

He looks over at Dean who’s watching the road, expression pinched with doubt.

“What?” Sam pushes. “It’s something!”

“Is it?” Dean asks. “Just think about what you just said, Sam. If it’s so ubiquitous that everyone and their mom’s ancient civilization used it, it could not only mean a ton of things, it could just as easily mean nothing.”

Sam folds his arms. The adrenaline rush is turning to prickling anxiety.

“Sam, I want it to mean something too, I do. I just don’t want you placing all your bets on one thing.” He reaches over and pats Sam on the back of the neck. Sam bats his hand away. “Come on, grumpy, let’s get you home. You’re beat.”

They pull up to the hotel and it feels like they’ve been here for years. Sam stares through the windshield and feels the scream fighting inside him, rising up in his throat.

Dean’s waiting for him outside the driver’s side and when Sam doesn’t move, leans back down and whistles softly. “Hey.” Sam looks over and Dean’s eyes are so green it snaps something in him like a twig. He feels the tension melt with the quiet command of his voice. “Come on, kiddo. Lock your door.”

Sam drags himself out of the Impala, runs a hand through his hair, and feels exhaustion hit him between the eyes like a cold wind. It aches.

He follows Dean to the door, leans against the stucco. The memory of the last time he held that perspective has Sam pushing away from that surface as soon as he touches it. Dean doesn’t notice.

Inside Dean turns on the air conditioning and Sam falls on the bed. “We’ll research tomorrow. We’ll figure it out,” Dean says and it’s in a comforting, soft tone even as he’s walking around doing god knows what. Sam hears the faucet, the clink of a glass on the sink. “Brush your teeth, Sammy,” Dean mumbles around his toothbrush and Sam tries to say he’s coming, but it just comes out as a groan before sleep pulls him down.

Sam wakes up to the sound of the shower and sleepily he rises. He knocks on the bathroom door, yawns.

“Yeah?”

“Gotta piss.”

“It’s unlocked.”

Sam is distantly glad he’s tired enough to not over think this and just go in and do what he needs to do. He sits down and tries to relax.

Dean is shifting around in the shower, the water cutting off. Dean reaches out an arm and grabs a towel.

“Almost done,” Sam says, feels himself blushing, because Dean is only going to be as modest as he feels like, so Sam should get out of here as soon as possible. He wipes himself and feels a shock in his gut at the bright red staring back at him from the tissue. He’s dumbfounded for a moment and then Dean steps out.

“For real?” Dean asks and Sam looks up bewildered to Dean, one towel wrapped around himself and the other around his short hair. Dean sighs. “Well,” he says defeated, “guess I’ll go out and get some supplies.” He steps out of the bathroom and Sam hears the towel drop to the carpet as soon as Dean is out of view. He hears the sound of Dean getting dressed. “And double it, because living together we’re probably on the same cycle.”

Sam throws the bloody tissue into the toilet between his legs. “I am amazed you know about that,” he says.

Dean doesn’t answer that remark but calls, “I’ll be back in 15. Hold tight,” and closes the door behind him.

Sam sits for about thirty seconds before his brain starts to supply him with about a dozen period related memories of Jess, and while he’s not a baby about menstruation, he’s also very used to it only affecting him secondhand. His stomach hurts. Maybe this is cramps? He could never get a good explanation from Jess about how they felt. But maybe his stomach just hurts because he’s hungry. He’s starving.

Sam distracts himself as much as he can with his limited radius of reach. He picks up the hotel mini shampoo and inspects it, smells the soap, goes so far as to grab the shaving cream Dean left next to the bathtub. Sam thinks about that. Dean’s been shaving his legs and underarms, he realizes. Maybe other places.

Sam reads the back of the shaving cream can like it’s going to save him.

All avenues of entertainment exhausted, Sam leans forward onto his hands. There is a definite difference in the way he feels the more he focuses on it. A sort of heaviness he feels going down his spine and a mild ache in his gut that radiates and eases. It’s not that bad, but it doesn’t feel good.

Dean gets back a little out of breath. “It’s hot as Hell out there.” He drops down a couple of plastic bags in the bathroom door way and squats down to rifle through. He hands over a box of maxi pads. “I’m guessing the basics are good but if you wanna try your hand at a tampon, more power to you.” He hands over a smaller box of Tampax.

Sam adjusts his shirt to make sure he’s decent, and opens the box of pads. He opens one of the little plastic wrapped packages carefully. “I’m afraid to ask why you know so much about periods,” Sam says.

Dean has moved the bag up to the sink where unloading it is easier. “Had a girl a while back who made me stick around a little longer than my M.O.” Dean says it softly, like it’s a little embarrassing. Like he hadn’t been planning of ever speaking about it.

Sam feels about five unnameable emotions race through him, but what lingers after that initial wave of mostly jealousy is a soft feeling of wanting to nurse a wound he knows Dean would prefer he never bring up again. “Oh,” Sam manages, placing the pad meticulously on the small piece of fabric in his underwear where he hopes it does its job best.

Dean turns on the tap and hands a glass of water over to Sam with two Advil. Before Sam can ask what for, Dean supplies, “Trust me on this.” Sam takes the glass and capsules and swallows them down and then so immediately it’s almost comical the most unbelievable wave of nausea and deep, aching pain sweeps through Sam all the way to his knees.

“What the hell,” Sam groans when he catches his breath.

Dean laughs a little. “Yeah, it sucks.”

“Oh my gosh.” Sam takes a couple breaths and then puts his head in his hands. “I can’t get up,” he mutters.

Dean places a hand on his shoulder reassuringly, if a little teasing. “It’ll pass in a second.”

And it does, though that second is more like a full forty.

“You should go get into bed and wait for the meds to kick in.” Dean says and that warmth on Sam’s shoulder is suddenly gone. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

“Thanks,” Sam says as Dean leaves Sam to have some privacy, and Sam feels unpleasantly tender all of a sudden. He wipes the tears off his face in a rush. Hormones can suck his dick once he gets it back.

The meds don’t do anything. That or it’s so bad, the painkillers just keep it a step below blackout level of agony.

Dean orders them breakfast delivered, emails Bobby about what they found at the apartment complex, does some research for a couple hours on the laptop, humming when he finds something of interest, and loudly letting out a held breath when it’s not going well. Sam lies in bed and watches daytime television, feeling like he’s simultaneously wetting himself and being twisted in knots from the inside.

Sam sits up eventually and asks, “How do I know when to change this thing?”

“Uh,” Dean looks away from the laptop to Sam. “I don’t know. It’s like a diaper, dude. Eventually it’s at capacity.”

Sam scowls. Being compared to a baby in any way at the moment makes him want to throw the ice bucket in Dean’s general direction. “Very helpful,” he replies.

Sam gets up and goes to the bathroom, sits down to pee and change the pad, and very actively decides that looking at what is coming out of him will not help his mental state. But he can only avoid so much - the glue from the back of the pad gets the damn thing stuck to his hand and he has to battle with it for a while just to semi roll it up the way he used to see Jess’s in the waste basket. She’s still helping him even now and, no. No more crying.

There’s blood on his underwear. Shit.

“Dean?” Sam calls.

“Yeah?”

“Could you bring me a clean pair of underwear?”

Dean comes over to the door with a pair and slingshots it at Sam. Sam manages to catch it. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

It’s not so bad, Sam tells himself as he finishes cleaning up and pulls the fresh underwear on, pad in place. The cramps are nearly gone right now. He can get through this. Just a couple days and then no more for another month. Sam diverts that thought to a never again scenario, because they will have fixed this by then. They’ll have fixed it. He washes the blood from his hands and from under his fingernails and dabs at the stain on his dirty underwear with hydrogen peroxide. Blood is blood, right?

When he makes it back out to the bed, Dean is relaxing on the other side of Sam’s bed, watching Oprah, research left on the table. Sam hesitates, but then walks back to his side of the bed and gets back under the sheet. Being next to Dean feels good despite it all. It still feels good.

“How ya doing?” Dean asks.

“Oh, you know,” Sam says casually, “when I’m not trying to keep the screams down based on how horrifying the situation at hand is, I’m just feeling like the biggest wuss ever.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, I hear you,” he agrees and laughs. “And periods are pretty hardcore. Don’t feel too bad. Most people who have them regularly are pros by your age.” A pause. “But yeah, you are kind of a wuss.”

Sam smiles. “I knew you wouldn’t let that slide.” He looks over and finds Dean watching him, those green eyes shining with so much warmth it feels like vertigo to be on receiving end of it. “How ‘bout you?”

Dean shrugs. “So far, so good. No cramps, no blood.” Sam looks back at the TV. They watch for a bit. Oprah is crying with her guest, and Dean chuckles because he’s wiping his own eyes. “See, you’re not the biggest wuss.” Sam opens his mouth in silent laughter, and Dean laughs, defeated.

“I cannot believe it,” Sam giggles.

“Hey! PMS is a _real_ _thing._ We probably didn’t notice yours because you’re always such a pain in the ass anyway.” Sam opens his mouth to tell him to shut up but Dean cuts him off with an, “Oh!” Dean startles a bit, snaps his fingers, and gets up. “That reminds me…” And he’s gone around the corner.

Sam can hear Dean going through the bag in the bathroom and in moments he’s returned with his hands behind his back looking supremely satisfied with himself – an expression that on that smaller, feminine face looks much younger than Sam is used to.

“Okay, what is it?”

Dean kind of playfully runs and and jumps down on the bed and onto his side, whipping his arms around as he does to reveal a bag of little chocolate bars. The brightly colored treats bounce down on the bed between them, and when Sam stares at them, speechlessly questioning, Dean insists, “Again, trust me on this.” He rips open the bag and the smell of them hit Sam like the most beautiful perfume in the world. His mouth waters immediately. Dean pulls one out, unwraps it in an instant, and puts it in his own mouth, chewing loudly. “Unh, Ambrosia,” Dean says with his mouth full, licking his lips.

Blood rushes south. Sam feels his stomach sink because of how good it looks. All of it. Dean. The chocolate - he’s so hungry and simultaneously so horny, it’s not fair. “Come on,” Dean persists, unwraps a Krackle bar, inching it towards Sam’s mouth. “Try it.” Sam sighs a little. When he begrudgingly opens his mouth and bites down, the taste is unreal. It washes through him like a wave of particularly comforting pleasure. It’s like he’s never had chocolate before in his life until this moment.

“Oh my god,” Sam breathes as he chews.

“It helps, huh?” Dean says, beaming down and popping the other half of the chocolate into his mouth.

“Holy fuck,” Sam swears. “That is _amazing_.”

Dean laughs again, but it’s short of breath this time, and when Sam looks up, he sees Dean unwrapping another, hands just slightly shaky. Sam swallows, heart picking up to painful tempo. Dean’s eyes are heavy lidded when he reaches over to offer it to Sam, and Sam can’t be imagining the small shiver that runs through Dean beside him when Sam’s lips brush against Dean’s fingertips. Sam bites down, feels the buttery give and tastes the sweetness, but doesn’t back away, lets his lips linger there, a whisper of sensation against Dean’s skin. It takes all his courage to look up to Dean.

Dean is so unabashedly focused on Sam’s mouth he looks drunk. He’s pink in the cheeks. He’s, god, he’s turned on.

Sam breathes out, and it ghosts over Dean’s fingers still barely touching Sam’s lips. Dean exhales too, a trembling and small, surprised sound on the tail of it.

It’s too much. “You jerk,” Sam mutters narrowing his eyes and chewing, and Dean snaps to awareness. He meets Sam’s eyes, slightly shocked at the response. “You did this on purpose,” Sam accuses softly, and makes it a point to whisper it close over the backs of Dean’s fingers. He’d like to feel more betrayed, but the possibility that Dean wants _more_ from him has him so aroused, he can’t find it in himself to be angry.

Dean pulls his hand away like Sam burned it.

“I didn’t! I swear to God,” Dean insists in a rush and he’s telling the truth, Sam can hear it. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave. I’m gonna go.” He shuffles himself over slightly, a really halfhearted attempt because, one, he’s still having trouble with the new combo of less upper body strength to wider hip size, and two, Dean’s still looking at Sam like Dean is the thirstiest person on earth. Dean bites his lip. “I made a mistake,” he says. “I had no idea …”

He’s not actually leaving though. Sam sees a familiar emotion there Dean is grappling with that he knows too well himself: guilt. Guilt that seems to come out of nowhere like quicksand and pull you down into darkness. Maybe without knowing it Dean is getting a glimmer of what most of Sam’s life has been like with Dean up to this point. Sam has had years of practice with dealing with denying himself what he wants. Dean has not. He wishes he could tell Dean how it is, how he really feels, wishes deepest that Dean could feel the same way, could feel this engulfing love instead of just momentary and circumstantial lust, when Dean obviously does not and cannot feel that way. Heaven help Sam if Dean ever really knew how Sam holds him in his heart. Sam can meet whatever this is halfway though. And he can do it with empathy, because he knows what it’s like to want something you shouldn’t.

Sam reaches over and wraps his hand around Dean’s wrist and pulls it back over. Dean lets him, watches intently. He sorrowfully protests, despite himself, “You don’t have to, Sammy.” The sound of Sam’s name dirty rough on Dean’s tongue has Sam throbbing.

“I know,” Sam says and gently kisses at Dean’s fingers, right over the knuckles, feather light. Sam looks up to Dean, heavy-lidded, again, and experimentally licks at the tip of Dean’s finger, still chocolatey and sweet. Dean shifts his hips and huffs out, “What do you want me to do?”

Sam’s heart is a hammer in his chest as he shifts up over Dean. He lets himself ask, though it’s not framed as a question, “I want you to let me do whatever I want to you.”

Dean’s eyes go wide. He searches Sam’s face for a joke there, and bites his lip when Sam moves up and kisses him right under his jaw where Dean’s skin is so unbelievably soft and vulnerable, where Sam can feel his rabbiting pulse right under his own lips. Sam licks at it once and Dean gasps. It’s a delicious eternity before Dean breathes out a shaking, “Okay.”

Sam coaxes Dean to lie back and moves down his body, kissing along the soft plane of his stomach, the downy path under his navel and lower, lower, looking up every so often to see Dean looking down at him, nodding that it’s okay, keep going.

There are a few tricks Sam knows he’s good at in the bedroom and one of them, at least that he’d found out with Jess, was that he was pretty damn good at going down on a girl. He hasn’t done it for a little while, but the thought of making Dean come with his mouth has him aching between his legs, terror mixed in with the rush of desire racing under his skin, because how did he get so bold? Is he really going to be able to do this with over a decade of denial telling him to run away with every sweep of his lips over each new, soft place? He unbuttons Dean’s jeans and Dean sucks in his breath. Sam looks up again and the look he’s getting from Dean now is all want and disbelief. Sam wonders if Dean ever had the inkling Sam had it in him to take the reins this quickly. Sam sure as hell didn’t until now.

“Still okay?” Sam asks. Dean nods and just barely squirms as Sam pulls the zipper down. Sam kisses over the exposed little triangle of cotton panties there and feels the heat radiating from beneath, can smell the sour tang of Dean there, intoxicating. Dean makes a small, needy sound as Sam deeply inhales against him.

“Sammy, you’re killing me here,” Dean begs and Sam’s right there too, he can’t tease much more. Sam nuzzles against him once more and then sits up and tugs on Dean’s jeans. Dean helps him get them over his hips and kicks them off his ankles. Sam looks up and Dean looks slightly uncomfortable on display like this – down to his shirt and his panties, wet patch outlining the parts of him Sam hasn’t gotten to see yet, so close to being known.

Dean is blushing hard. “Don’t stare at me like that.”

“I like looking,” Sam breathes and Dean huffs out an incredulous laugh. Sam climbs back up to where he was a moment ago. “You’re just so,” Sam kisses at Dean’s hip making him giggle, ticklish, “fucking” and he moves down to mouth at the soft little cove where Dean’s thigh touches the edges of his panties making Dean gasp, “hot.” Sam places his mouth right over Dean’s clit through the fabric and open mouth kisses there and Dean tenses, legs raising to spread farther up as he pleads, “Sam, God, can’t—“ And then Sam licks over it once, twice, that sweet tanginess meeting his tongue through fabric, and Dean bucks up, writhes. “Fuck, Sammy…” Sam keeps licking Dean like that, relishing the sounds of pleasure and gratefulness and even surprise coming from Dean, until Dean is nearly sobbing and Dean’s underwear is soaking around Sam’s lips.

Sam sits up slightly, tongue just barely numb from friction, his mouth full of Dean’s taste. Dean whimpers in the lull, hand finding Sam’s arm and trying to encourage him back down. But Sam wants to see this. He gently peels down Dean’s panties, revealing the soft patch of hair there, trimmed short enough to see the shape of the mound of him but still long enough to be soft when Sam caresses it. Sam sighs and pulls the panties the rest of the way down and Dean kicks them away.

Sam places his fingers gently to the wet slit there and rubs, his own body so uncomfortably turned on it’s hard to tell what the maxi pad situation is presently because whatever it is, it’s a mess now. Sam spreads his legs slightly and finds a position where he can just barely rub himself against the mattress as he kisses gently around Dean’s outer lips, wet with sweat and Dean’s slickness, moves over to lick delicately at the edges of him around his fingers as he rubs them over the bud, and Dean is trembling under him.

Sam glances up and Dean’s eyes are closed, mouth open and gasping like this is the best feeling of his life, and Sam shifts his hips into mattress and moans, can’t help it. He’s going to lose it if Dean keeps being this unbearably sexy. Sam removes his fingers and replaces them with his tongue.

Dean whines out a desperate sound at the change and Sam works slow, gentle circles around Dean’s clit, feels it get even harder and more swollen under his tongue and he hums happily, sucks at it, savoring the helpless cry it wrings from Dean. He’s ready, Sam can feel, for Sam to take it up a notch and he runs his fingers over Dean’s thighs. When he starts really working his tongue over and around Dean’s clit, he moves his hold to Dean’s hips, fingers grasping back around the sides of Dean’s ass to feel the shift of it as Dean thrusts up to his face. Sam hums again, mouth full and jaw getting that almost forgotten soreness from doing this, but he feels Dean start to unravel, legs falling open and hips grinding up to meet Sam’s mouth, and Sam’s not about to stop. “More, more, _fuck_ ,” Dean grits out as Sam picks up the pace. “Oh,” Dean gasps, stutters, “Close, I’m close,” the tail end of the word cut off with a sucked in breath, with the realization that there is nothing to warn for, and Dean’s fingers bury themselves in Sam’s hair clumsily and greedy as the sounds he’s making climb and mount in desperation, his thrusts meeting every quickening move of Sam’s tongue, and then he’s coming, in sweet, harsh cries, hips lifting high to chase it on Sam’s tongue. It seems to go on and on, finally dwindling to small spasms and gasps. Dean goes limp and breathy below him.

But Sam stays there, nestled in deep, kissing lightly, and rubbing his own aching clit against the bed. He looks up to Dean, who is glassy eyed and dewy with sweat. “Wow,” Dean breathes. “Well, I’ve never done it like that before.” He beams down at Sam briefly, eyes blinking and unfocused. “You’re… really good at that.”

Sam smiles, heart swelling. “Thanks,” he says bashfully into Dean’s thigh.

Dean laughs up at the ceiling. “Man, when you return the favor…”

Oh.

So this was… oh.

Sam sits up and back. He wipes his face off, all sweetness suddenly gone sour. So to Dean it was just a favor. Well, of course it was. And why should that leave Sam feeling sick, when it’s safer than what it actually was for Sam? It should be a favor. It should mean nothing. His stomach turns, cramps coming back.

Sam wishes he’d told himself he was just returning a favor before he’d done it. He figures he’d feel a little less like screaming right now. But maybe not.

“Yeah, that’s me all over,” Sam says, exhausted by this. All of this. He’s soaked with blood and come, and Dean’s taste is still overpowering in his mouth, and he feels so fucking heartbroken and cheap right now he could cry.

“Sam.” Dean heard the bitterness in Sam’s tone, must’ve, because he sits up. “That was a stupid thing to say, I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Sam says shaking his head. “Just, I...” Sam has his hand over his own chest. He’s not sure when he put it there to quell the ache but he whips it down now because he knows how it looks. He knows how this looks. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Sam looks back quickly at Dean as he turns into the bathroom but Dean isn’t looking at him go. Dean’s covered himself with the sheet. He looks hurt.

Sam sits down in the shower and finally really does cry. The hot water fills the room with so much steam he feels dizzy and Sam tries to feel invisible in it and weep as quietly as he can while he wishes he could disappear. He should be allowed to wish that every once in a while and now maybe more than ever.

He never should have done it. He never should have touched Dean back. He never should have trusted himself, or entertained that this is anything more than Dean dealing with not getting laid for a few days. What else could it have been? He let himself hope. He let himself imagine he could have something that he can’t, and he shouldn’t. This is all Sam’s fault. He should have been happy with Dean helping him out and just left it. Why did he go so far?

There’s a knock on the bathroom door.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Sam calls softly.

“Sam, let me in.”

Sam can’t decide what he wants, but that pause is taken as an okay for Dean to open the door anyway. Sam pulls his knees up higher and crosses his arms around them.

Dean comes over, sits down, and peaks in through the curtain. “Aw, Sammy, come on,” he breathes out with concern. “Was it what I said? It was a stupid thing to say, I’m sorry. I let my mouth go.”

Sam shakes his head.

“Well, what is it?”

Sam looks up through his wet hair just enough to see Dean in his peripheral. Dean is dressed again, and it makes Sam feel just that much more exposed. Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s me, it’s my fault.” He can feel himself bleeding, and it’s like this can’t be any more humiliating, can it?

“What’s your fault?” Dean reaches in, pushing wet hair out of Sam’s face gently. “Come on, talk to me.”

Sam breaks. “Talking isn’t going to fix this,” he sobs.

“Okay, so it won’t fix it, but at least you won’t feel like you’re dealing with it alone.” Dean pleads, and rubs Sam’s arm with the back of his fingers.

“I don’t think it works like that this time,” Sam confides.

Dean touches still on Sam’s arm for a moment. “I know.”

And those two words make Sam’s heart jump into his throat. He looks up in shock, but Dean’s not meeting his eyes, just starts caressing Sam’s arm again, gaze unfocused on where skin meets skin.

“I know,” he repeats.

Even under the heat of the water, Sam’s gone cold.

“I thought I was alone though,” Dean says it so softly – softer and more fragile than Sam’s ever heard Dean speak. “I really did. And I didn’t want to put that on you. And when I kissed you and you pushed me back—Damn it, Sam, I didn’t want—”

Sam pulls Dean into the spray of the shower despite the gasp Dean gives, and kisses him rough and messy. “Are you kidding me?” Sam asks, shaking, heart lighting up like a beacon, because if he’s misunderstanding this, if he’s got this wrong, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“For years, Sammy, years—“ and Sam cuts him off by putting his mouth on Dean’s again, like he can suck the words up, like he can’t stand to hear the tremendousness of them. Dean kisses Sam back, cupping Sam’s face with his hands, as if it’s their first time, like he’s finally getting to do this and get it right.

Sam pulls him the rest of the way into the shower. Dean is quickly drenched from his shirt to his jeans, but he just keeps holding Sam’s face like he can’t notice anything else.

“Say it,” Sam says adamant, shaking his head. “I don’t want to be fooling myself into someth—“

“I don’t know what’s happening here,” Dean interjects, hushed and insistent. “I don’t know how the Hell we got here or how we shifted or whatever, but it’s making me... brave. And reckless.” He kisses Sam on the forehead and continues to murmur into his hairline, “I never knew how to connect the dots with you. I tried not to. But the picture was always there when I stared hard enough and it scared the shit out of me.” He takes a deep, trembling breath. “Did you? Do you?”

Sam nuzzles into the wet flannel on Dean’s chest. “More than you’ll probably ever know. Everything always comes back to you in my head.”

Dean takes a deep shuddering breath under Sam’s cheek. “This is crazy,” Dean says and wraps his arms around Sam like he’s trying to warm him up. “This is crazy right?”

Sam buries his face further into Dean’s chest. “I’m tired of thinking I’m crazy for this.”

Sam feels Dean nod, just slightly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah.” Sam tilts his head up and hesitates until Dean bows down and kisses him softly over wet lips, reverently, chastely, the warm water falling over them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/spoilers: menstruation, menstrual pain, incestuous desire, incest, sex while menstruating, brief jealousy, food kink and hand feeding, kind teasing, cunnilingus (on someone who is not menstruating), sexual regret, heartbreak.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Come say hi! [I'm on Tumblr!](https://cassandraleeds.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Closeness and answers.
> 
> Warnings/spoilers in chapter end notes.

They kiss until it dissolves into pulling Dean back out of his clothes under the downpour and shoving the soggy clothes to the corner of the shower. Sam is finally able to look at Dean in this smaller body, naked except for his necklace, and touch over him, finding new places that have Dean’s gaze go heavy, his breath catch. Dean carefully touches back. There’s a shyness there that the confession has brought into focus - a guilty, confused stumble to the caresses and hesitant petting. This isn’t how Sam imagined it would be in any of his wildest dreams, and maybe the same goes for Dean. Now that it’s known, it’s like they are making love in two languages at once - what they had once desired and what they have. And what they have now is slighter and softer, and sounds almost like one another, but not quite.

They rest in bed after, skin to skin, TV on low. Dean runs his fingers through Sam’s hair and Sam is awash in bliss and something like terror.

“You alright?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs against the soft skin of Dean’s chest. “I just keep waiting to wake up.”

Dean chuckles. “Where would you wake up?”

Sam knows Dean is playing with him but he feels his heart sink when he considers the question. “You remember when we were living in Oakland for a while?”

Dean lets out his breath. “Uh, yeah. You were still in Middle School I think. Why?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “I was fourteen. That was the first time you came home with someone and I heard you with her,” Sam confesses. “I’m not sure why it… I knew you had girlfriends and I knew you slept with them. But I heard it and it all kind of crashed down on me.”

There’s a quiet heaviness in the room. “Wow,” Dean says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know I was home. It’s not your fault.” Sam excuses. “I just keep thinking I’m gonna wake up and be fourteen again and so fucking heartbroken I can’t breathe.” Sam’s eyes prickle with tears. He doesn’t want to cry anymore today.

Dean pulls Sam closer, puts the hand that isn’t in Sam’s hair on Sam’s waist. “I’m not letting you go anywhere, Sammy.” He adds finally as Sam starts to calm, “If you wake up there, so will I, which means I’ll have years ahead of me spent with people to distract me from what I really wanted.”

Sam closes his eyes. “I can’t believe you,” Sam whispers.

“What?”

“You hid it better than I did.”

Dean laughs under his breath. “I don’t know about that.”

Sam wakes to the sound of Dean’s cell ringing and the warmth of Dean’s chest under his cheek. Sam scowls, eyes still closed, and holds Dean a little tighter for a moment before Dean leans over and picks it up. “Hey, Bobby.”

Sam pulls the pillow over his head. Bobby. For a moment it felt like the rest of the world could wait.

Dean rises out of bed, quickly pulling an oversized, clean shirt over his head – one of the ones that fit him weeks ago – before putting the phone back to his ear and humming an affirmative. He’s pulling on a pair of pants that actually fit when he stills and sits. “Okay, yeah. That’s good.”

Sam reaches out and touches at Dean’s arm and Dean looks over his shoulder, phone still pressed to his ear. He meets Sam’s eyes, uncertain looking. “Okay. I’ll get back to you.”

Dean hangs up and takes a deep breath. “Well, we’re going back to the apartment probably.”

“Why? What did Bobby say?”

Dean gets up and sits at the table, opening the computer, and gesturing as he says, “He found some info on some missing people who might not actually be missing.” He smiles a bit, like it’s almost funny, then goes back to opening his email. “And with a bit of amateur hacking - thank you, Bobby – it seems they all had Facebook Messenger conversations with a ‘Julia .’” Dean clicks an email from Bobby and Sam peers over from the bed as he slowly rises and covers himself with the sheet. Dean opens a handful of Facebook message screenshots from Bobby. Dean’s reading fast. “Messages are all pretty typical responses to available rooms but there’s, huh, at least a couple that talk about getting away from some dude or another person that’s treating ‘em bad. Some of them are in really dangerous situations. ”

“They’re all women?” Sam asks.

Dean does a sort of half way shrug. “Going by missing persons, no. Seems like a good half of the folks who contacted Julia were Toms, Dicks or Stanleys. Some of them mention feeling like they’re not accepted by their church. Or family… So we have a bunch of people who were in a bind, looking for housing in the apartment complex. And it seems like Julia is the manager. After that, their social media accounts turn into a long line of prayers and missing persons photos from friends and family. Or they’re abandoned accounts set to private. That’s not even counting the unknown amount of people who might have just purged everything and deleted after making contact. Best case they presumably came here without leaving much of a trace.” Sam quickly gets dressed as Dean continues. “But Bobby also emailed a link. Looks like most of them were also all members of a feminist message board type website. Moderated by a Julia. Same IP,” Dean takes a deep breath and gives an exaggerated sarcastic shrug. “So yeah, the whole thing is definitely kind of weird. Sort of a weird, feminist refuge or something?”

Sam bites at his lip. “Yeah. It is weird. And given the town’s history it's definitely suspicious. But people hiding from abusers and bad situations isn’t really our area, right?” There’s something nagging there. “What about the blog?”

Dean clicks it open. “The Order of the Twins of Apollo. Sounds like a Harry Potter book.”

Basic Mythology 101 is coming back to Sam fast. Twins of Apollo... His stomach drops.

Dean asks, “Hey what was the name of the original cult? The New Coven—”

“—of Artemis,” Sam finishes. “Artemis was Apollo’s twin. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Sam’s heart is racing so hard it hurts as he pulls on a pair of pants and a shirt and runs over to Dean.

“I’m thinking that maybe this cult ain’t as dead as we thought,” Dean mutters. “Hey!”

Sam yanks the computer over, googles Artemis, and lo and behold—“Crescent moon, arrows. Just like we saw at the apartment.” Sam hangs his head and laughs. “Oh my God, the bartender at Arnie’s where I met Mort had a _tattoo_ of Artemis on her _forearm_ ,” He swears. “I feel so stupid. How did I miss that?”

Dean is quiet for a minute. “So they never left. Or they came back later, but they’re here.”

Sam is skimming down a bunch of facts about the goddess and he goes cold. He points to a line on his screen. “Dean?”

Dean leans in.

_Siproites is a boy, who, either because he accidentally sees Artemis bathing or because he attempts to rape her, is turned into a girl by the goddess_

“Well, shit,” Dean breathes.

“Been peeping lately, Dean?” Sam tries to joke, but he’s breathless.

Dean isn’t laughing. “I swear to God, no!” Sam looks over his shoulder. “And you know I’d never rape anybody, Jesus, Sam!” Dean is pale. “What?”

“Because…” Sam stumbles out, humiliated, “I might have been… a little… distracted by you changing a few times before we got here.”

Dean’s eyes go wide.

“I’m just being honest!” Sam fumbles. “I really don’t think that’s it. But I think there’s something to whatever this is.” Sam points at the screen, and then points back and forth to both of them. He turns to Dean. “We need a plan.”

Dean pulls his boots on and is already heading out the door before Sam can make sense of it.

“Dean!” Sam calls after him, running to the door and looking out. Dean’s already opened the trunk of the Impala and propped it open. Sam quickly pulls on his own shoes and runs out to Dean’s side. “What are you doing?” Dean is loading his Colt, he’s checking their supply of stakes. “Dean, a plan,” Sam insists.

“Okay,” Dean says tightly still holding his gun. “I plan to go get some answers.” Dean closes the trunk and makes his way to the driver’s side door.

“That’s not a plan,” Sam protests but Dean is getting in already. Sam grabs the door before Dean can close it. “Hey!” He says it sharp, but soft enough Dean bites his lip and shoots Sam a look. “I want answers too.”

Dean cocks his head quickly. “Then get in. Or I’m leaving without you.”

Sam laughs, annoyed, as he walks around to the other door. “You are such a liar.”

There is always something so unsettling about confronting a case in the light of day. Over the years hunting at night has been the norm, either because of added stealth or the nocturnal habits of so many of the monsters they sought out. In the harsh daylight it feels like whatever they find might be potentially worlds scarier without the shadows of nighttime to conceal the whole picture.

They follow the signs to the manager’s apartment, stepping over the arrow in the cement they had noted before. It’s as unassuming a unit as any of the others, at the top of an echoing stairwell they have to carefully climb, their guns ready. Outside to the left of the front door is a small rainbow flag sticking out of a planter housing a cheerful if dusty little ficus. A dreamcatcher is on the door under the peep hole and Sam and Dean keep to either side of door frame against the wall to keep out of sight lines. Dean signals he’s going to kick down the door. Sam frowns and shakes his head. With all 120 pounds of Dean soaking wet he’s going to kick down a door? Not having a plan is continuing to be phenomenally bad. Sam’s heart is hammering by the split second it takes for Dean to whip around to face the door and Sam has no choice but to go along with this stupid chain of events and cover him. Dean lifts his leg to kick and the door opens.

Dean falls through the doorway, but catches himself on the floor. Sam rushes forward, gun held out ready to be looking down the barrel at whoever opened the door. But there’s no one. Well, not no one. There are three cats in various reclined states of uninterested.

The whole place smells like cats and stale cigarette smoke. Incense too. Dean’s on his feet and checking behind the door. Nothing.

“You won’t need those,” a low, feminine voice calls from another room, what Sam can see is a kitchen. Sam and Dean both start. “Besides they won’t work in here.” The voice is friendly, if tired sounding, and the gun feels oddly heavy in Sam’s hands suddenly. He lowers it slightly and Dean gives him a look, his posture and aim unrelenting in defense.

“I just heated some water. Do you want tea?” A tall, slender, middle aged woman with long black hair emerges from the kitchen, holding a mug with the tag of a teabag dangling over the side. “Or maybe something stronger?” She chuckles as she makes her way to the couch. “Come on in. And, I’m serious, put those down.”

Dean looks at Sam nervously as Sam lowers his gun completely. “Are you Julia?” Sam asks.

“The one and only,” she says with a flourish of her long fingers. “Sit, just watch the cats.” The door closes behind them suddenly and they both jump, looking behind them, and then back to Julia. She grins.

“Sorry, I love a good party trick.”

They stand awkwardly for another moment as Julia pulls out a cigarette from a soft pack on the coffee table and begins to light it. “Listen,” she says around the cigarette before taking a quick drag and leaning back, “you can stand there forever, or put down your guns, sit, and get some answers. I have some questions for you too.”

Sam looks at Dean and shrugs. They’re out of options and now on Julia’s turf. There’s no plan B at this point. Dean nods minutely, and they stow their guns and sit down on two identical comfy chairs that are just far enough apart Sam feels the distance from Dean. Sam glances at Dean, still shockingly Dean in posture but small in frame, and despite the situation and his adrenaline, Sam’s heart squeezes. Dean is keeping his gaze trained on Julia.

“So, me first,” Julia begins. “What the hell are you doing in Lornisberg?”

Dean looks over at Sam warily.

“Other than, how do I put this delicately?” she mutters with a smile. “Getting closer with your sister.”

Sam feels himself go red. Dean’s gaze is angry as he looks back at Julia. “We’re not sisters!” He’s fuming. “And we’re not… It’s not like that!”

“Oh, I’m not judging. What kind of coven mother would I be if I didn’t open my arms to girls who have nowhere else to be themselves? You’re both adults.” Julia stops and straightens, interrupting herself. “Forgive me,” Julia rushes. “Wait. Just to be clear here – you aren’t women?”

“No!” Exclaims Dean. “We’re brothers! And until we got here, we were one hundred percent male.”

Julia pauses, face falling for an instant before it turns curious again. “You’ve certainly been taking to being seen as women swimmingly,” Julia counters almost to herself, befuddled, and a little overwhelmed. “Both by the townies and each other.”

“Have you been _spying on us?_ ” Sam asks, horrified. He may be this shade of red forever. Honestly the humiliation is so deep he feels it in his bones.

“Of course we have!” Julia says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You were the mistake that wasn’t a mistake! A happy fluke! At least, I thought.”

Dean leans forward. “Excuse me?”

Julia sighs. “Another pair of women came into this town the same night as you,” Julia explains, ashing her cigarette in a vintage ashtray in the shape of a crescent moon. “They were expected. Came in a similar car. There was a mix up. I set you up with the spell meant for them. Poor things were waiting for the change for a couple days, thinking it was all a prank or something. Absolutely horrible.” Sam feels understanding start to settle on him. “But it’s all right now,” she continues. “They’re here with me. I figured this could just be a gift for you and you could go on your way. Unfortunately, I don’t have any vacancies at the moment.” Julia shrugs. “And I have to keep it quiet. No more than a few rescues a year, I’m afraid, for safety. I’m hoping to buy another complex soon farther out of town. More safe houses in this world for the women like us who have no where to go.”

Sam leans back like he’s been pushed into the chair. “You’re Julian.”

Julia’s eyes narrow.

“I spoke with your Dad.” Sam shakes his head.

“Fuck you,” she says quietly, but pointed. “You speak that name in here again, you won’t have a tongue.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sam says earnestly, feeling awful, really. He shakes his head again. He’s dizzy. “This was a favor. This was a gift and it was just given to the wrong people.” Sam puts his hands to his face. “Oh my God, it’s just a mistake.”

“Is it though?” Julia asks. “Look at what it revealed to you! You think this,” she gestures between Sam and Dean, “isn’t possibly a sign that this is who you are?” Julia puts out her cigarette. “I mean I can’t tell you how to live your life, I’m just calling it as I see it.”

Dean is stony when Sam looks over. But Sam is feeling an overwhelming tenderness for Julia. She really wanted this to be the resolution to a good deed gone wrong, but it just isn’t.

“Julia, I know you want your answer to be ours. And it was obviously done with all the best intentions, but we’re not women. We’re just not,” Sam says gently.

“You seem to have taken advantage of certain aspects of my gift,” Julia chuckles, and, after a moment of thought, adds sadly, “I really thought I had fostered an awakening. I’m sorry.”

Sam smiles, still embarrassed, but tender and aching with the exposed truths Sam and Dean shared in the last 24 hours. It was an awakening, just not the intended one. When he looks to Dean, Dean is looking in his lap. Sam takes a deep breath - he might as well say what’s in his heart. It’s not like it’s ever done anything but hurt him to keep this locked up.

“The way I feel… it doesn’t care what form Dean’s in. It doesn’t care that he’s my brother, it certainly doesn’t care about this either. And I think the feeling is mutual. I’m so sorry that—“

Julia holds her hand up. “It’s okay. I get it.” She sips her tea. “More importantly, he does.”

Sam looks over at Dean again, whose expression is unexpectedly placid. “Change us back,” Dean says.

“Consider it done,” Julia fondly says down to a long-haired black and white cat that has found a nice bed in her lap. “Now we haven’t discussed your promise.”

“Promise?” Dean repeats.

“The promise you’re about to make that no harm will come to me or my girls – how you’ll make sure the other hunters know the rumors about this town are just rumors, because you searched the town up and down, and there was nothing to be found, the spell was the result of something from somewhere else. Really, I don’t care how you spin it, but leave us out,” she says thoughtfully and slow, as her fingers run through the long fur. “I was the only survivor the last time. I lost everyone who taught me how to love myself, who taught me the craft, everyone who allowed me to be who I am and loved me for it. And then they lied and called us murderers. Called us a cult. Those were my _sisters_ , my mothers and aunts, slandered in life and then in death just because this town couldn’t stand the thought of women in a few of the driver’s seats of this place, even after all the good we did for it.”

“The mayor wasn’t murdered?” Sam asks slowly coming to clarity, but remembering Mort’s story.

“No,” Julia scoffs. “I mean he died, but he was a very old man. It was bad timing and we were a convenient scapegoat. The gory details are urban legend. Everyone has a different scary story about it.”

Sam feels it all slotting into place. The realization of how wrong they had it is heartbreaking now.

Julia takes a deep breath. “It was worse than death to live through that. I won’t let that happen to any of these girls. I can’t let it happen again.”

Sam looks over to Dean who nods glancing up quickly. “You have our word.”

Julia smiles. “Good.” The cat jumps away as Julia stands, hair swinging. “Well, is there anything else I can help you with?”

Oh, time to go then. Sam stands, answering, “No. Thank you.” Dean follows him and gets up too, unusually withdrawn. “Is there something we need to do now? A spell or?” Sam asks.

Julia waves her hand. “It’s all taken care of. You’ll wake up tomorrow in the form you arrived in. I’m sorry again for the misunderstanding.” She waves again and the front door opens slowly. “Take care now.”

They walk back to the car in silence. Sam’s chest feels heavy as they sit down in the Impala filled with heat, the sun having turned her into a large oven while they were inside. Sam opens his window on the passenger side as Dean turns the ignition and pulls out onto the road. The silence continues. The weight grows heavier. All Sam can think about is how this feels like a countdown. How they have a few hours before everything is back to normal, back to pining for Dean like always, back to nothing but yearning and not having.

Dean gets out of the car first and walks quickly into their room, pushing the door back as he disappears, the push not quite hard enough to close the door, and it bounces back slightly from the jam. Sam sits and considers that however Dean is processing this, Sam probably can’t reach him. He wonders if he should just leave him alone. It’s going to be an ugly few hours of tamping their feelings down into a hard road they can walk down for the rest of their lives. Sam feels his eyes fill with tears and he pushes them away. It might be ugly forever. They might have mangled themselves beyond recognition by tomorrow morning. How can they go on after this? What will be left but lies, unspoken truths, and broken hearts? Will they have to go separate ways again, but this time with no reunion in sight ever again? Sam feels sick.

He’s sweating now from the sun hitting the windshield, and when he gets out of the car the cool breeze is fleetingly blissful. For a moment he doesn’t feel quite so awful, but that ease turns quickly back to pain as he walks up to the door left ajar and pushes inside.

Dean is sitting on the bed with his face in his hands, slender shoulders hunched over and shuddering. Seeing Dean cry is absolutely the last thing Sam expected, and it crushes something in Sam. Sam’s not sure how he gets there so fast but he’s instantly kneeling down in front of him, holding Dean’s arms, kissing his head over and over. “Don’t cry,” he whispers. “God, please don’t cry.”

“How?” Dean chokes out wetly, looking up at Sam, eyes pink. “How are we going to just,” he sobs and wipes his face, “keep going now?”

Sam takes Dean’s hands, slippery with tears in his grip. “Dean, please,” Sam says pitifully, through a throat almost too tight to speak. “We will. We have to.” He says it as soberly as he can to convince himself too. “We’ve gotten through enough, we can get through this too,” he says, slowly looking over Dean. He caresses his arm and then holds his hands until both of their breath has turned deep and steady. “I want to make love with you right now.”

“Farewell ride?” Dean laughs halfheartedly. “This might be the first time I’ve said this, but I don’t think I’m up for it.”

“Stop being a mopey jerk,” Sam chides, sniffing stale tears away, and pushes him back on the bed, laying on top of him. Dean wraps his arms and legs around Sam instantly.

“Your fault. All your mopey jerk rubbed off on me.” Dean sniffs too and nuzzles into Sam’s neck, inhaling him in. “I’m gonna miss your tits.”

Sam laughs and it’s like he can breathe correctly again, even if it hurts. “Honestly, me too.” He sits back and looks down at them with a grin. “Hey, if you’re not feeling it, we don’t have to…”

Dean pulls Sam down by his shirt and kisses him until he’s gasping, the grief numbed down to a dull hum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/spoilers: Mentions of past heartbreak and jealousy, mentions of fictional rape, mentions of voyeurism, incestuous desire, incest, smoking, mentions of the murder of characters who were trans women, mentions of misogyny, accidental misgendering, accidental deadnaming, grief, past trauma, angst, cisnormative gender based teasing.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Come say hi! [I'm on Tumblr!](https://cassandraleeds.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curse is lifted and as they leave this town back in their original forms, they struggle to find their way to a new normal.

Sometime during the night Dean gets up and goes to the other bed, because when Sam opens his eyes to the morning light, he’s alone. He turns over, body heavier, hands bigger, and sees the familiar shape of the Dean he’s loved all these years snoring softly on his stomach under the covers in the next bed. His heart twinges and drops. That’s it. They’re back.

And it’s over.

Sam gets out of bed and pulls off the panties that are cutting into his hips. He quickly pulls on a pair of his old briefs, and then starts looking through their bags for the rest of an outfit's worth of his old clothes.

It’s an empty, horrible feeling, and a relief all at the same time; Sam is in his own skin again, but the price is Dean sleeping in another bed forever. The price is to leave it all behind. No matter how they feel, the shift of form gave them a strange permission to be an exception for a space out of time. Without that magic, they are too close to what has always been denied, and Sam doesn’t know how to make that work with Dean. In his gut Sam knows that Dean won’t let it work, wouldn’t let it happen again without feeling like he’s killed something innocent. An illusion now, but still. Sam knows it won't be spoken of ever again.

He hears Dean rousing behind him as Sam’s slipping on his jeans, but he doesn’t turn. Dean clears his throat, all low and rough again, and Sam hears his weight shift as he sits up in bed. “Hey.”

Sam looks over his shoulder quickly and gives Dean a slight smile if a little forced after he pulls a shirt over his head. “Mornin’.” Dean’s rubbing his eyes, so Sam lets himself take Dean in unseen. Dean’s naked, Sam remembers, but he’s covered from the waist down by sheets. He’s still the most beautiful thing Sam’s ever seen. He’s missed those broad shoulders, the strong swoop of his chest as he’s slouching like that. He’s everything Sam could never have and still can’t. Sam looks away quickly.

“I’ll, uh, just wash up and get ready to go,” Sam mumbles walking to the bathroom to give Dean some privacy to get dressed.

Sam closes the door and turns to see himself in the mirror. All six foot four of him. He leans over and washes his face, gets to work brushing his teeth, taking a piss (standing up, thank God), putting on deodorant, and thinking of anything else but how bad this feels. How can he feel so right in his skin again and everything else feel so wrong?

When he comes out Dean is dressed and their stuff is nearly all packed up. “Thanks,” Sam says, and Dean waves it off. Sam runs his wet hands through his hair quickly. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

Dean avoids eye contact as he walks past him, which is fine really. Sam’s not ready either. Sam sits on his bed and waits. Dean’s phone rings. Sam peaks over at the caller I.D. “It’s Bobby, should I get it?”

“Yeah,” Dean calls.

Bobby swears at his tellingly lower voice when Sam answers the phone. “Well, thank God for that,” Bobby exclaims on the other end of the line. “Why didn’t you call? Or pick up? You all owe me a new nervous system for the stress you put me through.”

Sam apologizes profusely and then explains the search was a bust - just some folks hiding out from abusive people in their past. No witches in Lornisberg. No cult either. Seems like the curse was something they caught on another hunt, but it wore off. They’re fine.

“Huh,” Bobby replies. “And the website?”

“Just Wiccan stuff.” He pauses. “We searched that place up and down, Bobby. There’s nothing here. Honestly we’re just glad it’s over.”

“I bet,” Bobby breathes out. “Well. I got another job for you two then.”

Sam jots down the details. Sounds almost certainly like vampires. Sam says they’ll check it out and lets Bobby know they’ll be on the road within the hour before hanging up. Dean is back out from the bathroom and picking up the duffel bags. He heads outside with them, blinding sunlight shining in through the door. Sam grabs his laptop and packs it in his backpack, he slips on his coat, and looks around for anything he might have left. He walks around to look over the far side of the other bed and sees the mostly full bag of chocolates on the floor. The memory of Dean’s fingers touching his lips comes back to him completely unwelcome. His heart aches briefly with the desire to stash the bag, but he crushes the thought down and turns, leaving it there, and walks to the door.

He stops at the threshold though and looks back at the room, the empty beds, the unassuming color of the walls and carpet and bed coverlets, and the way the light spills through and gently touches them all. It’s an unremarkable room considering the types they’ve stayed in before, but it held so much. He wonders if it’s possible for a room like this to be haunted simply by what was confessed and laid bare there and then abandoned.

He breathes deep and lets it go. He tries to let it go.

When he slips into the passenger seat, he hands the notes he got from Bobby for the case over to Dean and pulls out the map and pencil. They talk small _. Guess we’ll take the 40. Gotta get gas first. Pick the music._

They leave the town as quietly and uneventfully as they entered it, the sign for the city limit cheerfully bidding them farewell and to visit again soon in cracked and weathered white on green.

A mile out, they pull into a gas station and Sam watches Dean go inside to pay. Sam wonders if he’s imagining the heaviness in Dean’s shoulders, and tells himself he’s projecting. Dean’s fine. They’ll hit a diner on their next stop for the night, and Dean will charm the uniform right off some young, bubbly waitress and he’ll be as good as gold again. They’ll be fine. Eventually Sam won’t feel like a stone at the bottom of a well.

The first half hour of a trip often feels the easiest to Sam, but the Impala seems to be going slower than her speedometer says. He lays his head back, suddenly very tired, and drifts off.

When he wakes up Dean is paying for drive through. “I got you chicken,” he says a little sheepishly as he hands over the paper bags. “That okay?”

Sam nods, yawning.

He can’t eat more than a few bites though and hides the mostly uneaten sandwich under the seat. He doesn’t want Dean to worry.

They find a cheap motel by late afternoon, about ten miles from the next job. It’s a safe enough distance to do some research, and generally inconspicuous. They unload the car in the fading light. The area is tree heavy, far more isolated than Lornisberg. That small town, small business, quiet, land-locked ambivalence had become sort of a strangely comfortable place in the time they had spent there. In comparison, this seems like camping. They’re the only motel in the area for miles. A few dots of lights farther out suggest a neighborhood. But other than the family working the motel, they’re the only souls here.

The sky has turned a dark gray-blue, and Sam is homesick again. It feels chronic. Incurable.

They talk about getting dinner but never order anything. The WiFi connection keeps being spotty, so research is out for the night after a couple hours. Dean turns on the TV. Sam brushes his teeth.

As Sam spits, he feels a sweat break out over him. The room is suddenly too hot. Sam makes his way past Dean lying on the bed to the front door, opens it, and steps out to the parking lot, alone. He closes the door carefully and he breathes in the quiet, considers the bougainvillea growing up the side of the motel, bright pink even in the moonlight, out of place and retro looking, and hates it.

No, he hates everything, every bit of his sad life - one loss after the next, one cruel, cosmic joke after another. What did he ever do to deserve this? He can hear the TV inside, and that sweet, twisted tenderness for Dean is still there even so, strong as a root. So not all hate. Not all lost.

And yet there is a price to loving Dean now that is so unutterably unfair.

But what would Sam have done? He’d do it all over again. He would. Just to know what he knows, and held what he held.

The next few days are spent trailing a vampire couple. When they find them they’re dressed all in black, robbing a blood bank late at night, as is their M.O. The trunk of their old Volvo is filled with coolers and dark red bags.

“We’re not hurting anyone,” the young woman says, hands in the air. Long strands of her copper hair peak out from where it’s been tucked under her beanie. She looks to her partner, another young woman who’s smaller, but her tight clothes give away that she’s strong - delicate and tough. “We _don’t want_ to hurt anybody,” the redhead reiterates as she and her girlfriend glance at one another. She’s pale, and dazed looking, and pleading for both of them, “We just don’t want to die. We leave money for them. We didn’t choose to live like this. This is the only way we can survive and not kill. Please.”

Sam knows. He knows exactly what it’s like to want something so bad you might die, to have no choice but to want it, to have to figure out how to survive side by side with it, day in and day out, without ever getting it. How to be on the edge of starvation forever.

Sam reaches to stay Dean’s hand, but he doesn’t need to. Dean’s gun lowers just slightly.

“Go,” Dean says low, with barely hidden disgust. “But God as my witness, if you go off the straight and narrow, I’m gonna be the one to kill you. And it won’t be quick.”

The toxicity of Dean's words hit Sam like a blow and Sam holds his breath with repulsion. He might vomit. Dean turns and leaves, and even in that flash in his periphery, Sam can see Dean is shaken.

The women look grateful but doubtful, but too terrified to ask questions as they quickly close their trunk and rush to get in the car. Sam watches them, suddenly hyper aware of the machete still in hand at his side, and the redhead looks back as she closes her door. He feels like a monster. Like a monster in disguise hunting monsters. He’s a walking, breathing lie.

They share a look. Sam knows vampires can’t read minds, but for a moment he feels uncomfortably seen. He could swear he sees an understanding pass between them. She looks away quickly and they drive off into the night.

Sam follows Dean back to the Impala. Adrenaline makes the car feel like it’s filled with static, and the drive to the motel is silent but heavy.

Sam’s so in his head that he gets caught on the bougainvillea walking by it to their door. He untangles the inch long thorn from the cuff of his jacket and pushes the vine back, swearing. When he manages to actually get inside, Dean is already in the shower. It’s 1AM, but it could be noon – Sam’s so wound up he could run five miles. Maybe he should. Might stop his mind from racing. Stop the mantra of Dean’s words repeating over and over in his head in a sickening loop.

He sits on the end of his bed instead, bouncing his leg restlessly.

Dean comes out of the bathroom, fully dressed again and still slightly wet. They’re not daring to wear towels around each other now apparently. Sam wants to laugh. He wants to scream.

Dean takes Sam in. “What’s up?”

“Am I as good as dead?” Sam blurts out into his hands. He looks over at Dean. He didn’t mean to say it. He just really needs to know if Dean feels the way Sam thinks he does. He can’t go on like this. “Like them? If I…”

Dean has gone white, freckles standing out even more along the bridge of his nose. Sam stands and walks over to Dean who holds his ground like he’s ready for a punch.

“If I feel the same... as before,” Sam finishes finally, looking down at Dean, close up and beloved with every bitter atom of his heart. “Am I as good as dead?”

Sam waits for Dean to not respond. He expects this question not to be answered, and that to be answer enough.

But Dean blinks, eyes suddenly wet and shifting. “No.”

Sam’s heart skips painfully, but he doesn’t dare say a word and risk pressing Dean just for Dean to retreat.

Dean’s eyes are lowered and Sam watches a tear stripe down Dean’s cheek before Dean hastily wipes it away with his hand. He sniffs. “No,” he says again.

Sam takes a step closer and then dares leaning just barely forward until he can feel Dean’s heat, smell the cheap hotel soap and the nicer shampoo Dean uses, and beneath that, the musky, sweet smell of Dean that drives Sam crazy and somehow still feels like coming home.

“Well, I do,” Sam confesses. The way Dean nods, Sam can tell it’s hard to hear, but he can’t live like this. “And I just don’t think I can pretend I’m something I’m not anymore.”

“And what are you?” Dean asks quietly.

Sam wishes Dean would look up so badly. He wishes he could look Dean in the eye, those eyes that have entranced him for so many years, the only eyes that have been able to see him for who he has always been, even if they were blind to this crucial element. Dean would know the answer if he looked now, Sam wouldn’t have to say it.

“I’m in love with you,” Sam says, and lets it hold all the sincerity he is capable of. “I always will be. Every form of you. Every stupid, fucked up, cursed version of you.” Dean’s brow furrows briefly. “And it’s not going to stop. So if you don’t want that,” Sam holds it back for a moment, because he can’t go back from this, but it’s the truth and he needs to say it, now, “I’m going to have to leave. I can’t do that to us.”

Dean still won’t look at him, eyes focusing somewhere through the floor, and he doesn’t speak for what feels like an eternity.

“Do I have to go?” Sam asks finally, the smallest pilot flame of hope in his chest.

Dean’s lip is trembling as he raises his hand weakly to stop Sam talking. And then that hand wavers between them, like it’s too heavy for Dean to hold it up, and he brings it down to rest gently over Sam’s thundering heart.

Sam is afraid to breathe, to do anything that might stop whatever is happening. Dean leans forward slightly, and then more so until he is leaning on Sam, his head on his shoulder. His other arm comes around Sam and holds him and Sam can’t speak, he can’t ask what this is. Is this a goodbye?

“Please don’t give up on me,” Dean whispers into Sam’s shoulder, his breath hitching.

And that hope in Sam’s chest flares dangerously.

“I want to meet you there, Sammy. I do,” Dean says slowly, like it’s the most difficult secret he’s every told a soul. “It’s just hard for me to…” Dean sniffs and Sam can feel the muscles of Dean’s face contort against him. There’s wetness soaking through Sam’s shirt.

Sam wraps his arms around Dean, carefully and slowly. “Hey,” Sam says softly, rubbing his hands over Dean’s back, his arms. “Okay.” Sam rests his cheek on Dean’s hair. “We can take it slow.”

Dean nods against him and raises himself. With what Sam can see is drawn courage, Dean meets Sam’s eyes. They’re still wet and pink with tears, and his face is flushed with emotion, but he’s more beautiful to Sam than ever. He’s open and vulnerable and he’s raising his hands to Sam’s face. The first touch to his neck makes Sam instinctively back away.

“I’m sorry,” Sam rushes, “I’m sorry, it’s not— it’s fine.”

“Just,” Dean murmurs, gaze flickering to Sam’s mouth as his hands come up to Sam’s face, “let me try.”

Sam’s breath is caught and then his lips are too, and he exhales as the room dissolves around them into warmth and light, and the whole world with it. Dean’s so gentle, his lips feel soft as feathers at first, until he opens his mouth and sucks at Sam’s lower lip, all heat and want, and Sam whimpers, sparks shooting through him. He grasps at Dean’s arms, his shirt, and feels the body he’s been dreaming of for years finally under his hands, strangely even less believable than anything he’s touched these last few weeks. The sharp rub of stubble as Dean’s kisses grow more ravenous and move down to Sam’s neck burns just enough to keep this real, to keep Sam from waiting to wake up. His mouth on Sam’s neck, sucking to the point that Sam’s sure there will be marks tomorrow, makes Sam moan breathlessly with disbelief, “Is this ‘slow’ for you?”

Dean laughs in a breath, ghosting cold against the wet on Sam’s pulse right beneath his jaw. His voice is rough and deep. “Guess so.”

Sam smiles, his hands going to the front of Dean’s shirt, fingering at the buttons in wordless question.

Dean nods and Sam starts unbuttoning Dean’s shirt as Dean begins working at Sam’s. “All the buttons are backwards,” Dean huffs out with impatient amusement, fumbling at one button after the next. Sam laughs too with what breath he can muster, as he finally finishes opening up Dean’s shirt. Dean stalls in his attempt to get Sam undressed and pulls off his own undershirt. Sam stares and without thinking places his hands to Dean’s skin, golden and warm. Dean’s eyes close. Sam feels that shift of vertigo. Too fast maybe. “Is this okay?” Sam asks.

Dean nods frantically. “Yeah.” He moves into the touch, muscles moving under Sam’s hand, like every fantasy Sam’s had, but better.

“You feel so good, Dean. You have no idea,” Sam is catching his breath and caressing over Dean’s chest. He looks down and sees the dizzying sight of Dean’s slight erection pressing against his jeans.

“I have some idea,” Dean replies, cocky as hell, but dazed as his hands move over Sam like they don’t know where to go next. And then, as if suddenly stripped of energy and surety, his touch gets shy.

“Can we just…” Dean closes his eyes and breathes deeply. “Can we just lie down and…”

Sam takes Dean’s hands and tries not to indulge the little panic that flashes through him as Dean’s unexpected bravery sputters out. He knows this is more than Dean ever thought he would let himself do without an excuse, ever. And Sam also knows Dean will never ask to cuddle, but that is what Dean needs right now, with his hands still holding Sam’s like he is memorizing holding them this gently. And this is where Sam takes over. Slowing down. “Yeah,” he whispers and places a kiss to Dean’s temple. “Of course. Lie down. Get under the covers.”

Dean gets out of his jeans and Sam tries to not focus on the still aroused line of Dean in his underwear. Sam wants more, but he isn’t going to push. He wants Dean to find his way to him in whatever time he needs, however long that takes. The insistent hunger for everything Dean could possibly give him tonight is still there but quickly becoming a comfortable warmth in his core. Sam changes into his pajamas as quickly as he can and gets under the hotel’s well-worn sheets and thin blankets, but the room is warm and so is Dean as Sam draws in closer.

Dean is curled up tight facing him, and Sam makes it as casual as possible when he reaches over and pulls Dean in, saying, “Come here.” Dean scoots in, and Sam puts his arm under Dean’s neck so Dean can get closer still. He sighs with surprise as Dean nuzzles up to his chest. They hold each other like this, unfamiliarly intimate in this form, and yet it’s so easy to sink into.

Dean stutters as he apologizes, “I-I’m sorry I couldn’t—”

But Sam interrupts him with “Shhh, nothing to be sorry for.” Dean inhales against him and relaxes. “Sleep,” Sam says into his hair, and listens to his breathing slow.

In the morning Dean is still in his arms, and they are _his_ arms. No curse to make this feel just enough like a lie to be easier and yet still hurt like hell for pretending to be a lie. Dean is muscular and substantial under his hands in the way Sam has always known in those hard hugs and gentle touches through all the years that had Sam feeling like a thief every time. And yet here they are, and Sam’s conscience feels pure.

They’ve shifted slightly but Dean is still tucked into Sam like he’s breathing him in. Sam watches Dean sleep in the morning light, pressed up against him, and he’s more beautiful than Sam can recall; he’s more _his_ than ever and perhaps, terrifyingly, that goes both ways, and that realization has Sam’s heart glowing hot like an ember. He shivers even so with the intensity of the thought, and Dean’s eyes flutter as he takes a deep breath, finally looking up to Sam.

Dean doesn’t pull away. Or tense. Or anything else Sam expects.

“Morning,” Sam says gently as Dean looks for all the world like he’s come up from the depths of somewhere safer than their life allows. He’s trying to read Sam’s expression like it’s a puzzle to be unlocked. “Sleep okay?” Sam asks finally as uncertainty begins to creep up his spine.

Dean pushes up just so and places his lips to Sam’s, the kiss soft and honest and as warm as the sun shining in.

As Sam inhales he feels the kiss thaw parts of him he didn’t know were still cold, and it swiftly becomes so much more than a kiss, completely loving and deep as it continues. Dean’s hand comes up to hold his cheek, his other hand reaching around Sam’s waist to hold him closer by the small of his back. Sam gasps as it brings his erection right against Dean’s through their underwear, an electric jolt of pleasure, and Sam chases Dean’s mouth, his body lighting up like a torch. It’s so much to have this; it’s been decades leading to this moment - maybe millennia - and it still feels so sudden. A wildfire. When Dean finally parts from the kiss, leaving Sam flustered and breathless, Dean replies, equally breathless, “Best sleep of my life.”

Sam makes a deep guttural sound, body surging towards Dean’s to get closer, closer than the physical allows. “God, I love you so much.” He hopes it’s not too forward for Dean, but he can’t help it. He has to say it, and if the proclamation frightens Dean, there’s nothing in Dean’s touch that gives it away. The kiss Dean gives him under Sam’s jaw in response feels easily given and fans the flames already taking Sam over.

“I know,” Dean says quietly against his skin, voice husky with want. He caresses Sam’s back, hand slowly moving down to his hip, as he hesitantly whispers the confession, “You know I feel the same, right?”

Sam nods with a sigh of relief, because he does. Now he does.

“Love you, Sammy.” It’s quiet and sacred, the most important secret on Earth. Sam opens his eyes to see Dean’s eyelids flutter before he looks up to meet Sam’s gaze. It’s a shock of green against the blush. “More than anything.”

In all of Sam’s life, he can’t remember anything fitting. Every single chapter of his life has been an attempt to be okay and it’s never stuck. Something always went sour, something always fell through or had to be left behind, something always exposed the façade and once again he’d be back to trying to build a new version of a good enough life. It was like an endless quest to fashion the perfect lock picking tool that would open the door to happiness. The key was always Dean, and he couldn’t forge it, no matter how he tried.

But as Dean slides into him, slotting their bodies together, finally, finally, with blinding pleasure and overflowing love, the world and their place in it with one another makes perfect and undeniable sense. It took such a strange road to find completeness, but they are one now.

As they were meant to have been for so long. As they always will be.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/spoilers: Heavy angst, heartbreak, threats, guilt, incest, ultimatums, incestuous desire, AND  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> a happy ending.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading along! I really hope you enjoyed it. Leave a comment, if you're moved to, and as always, feel free to come say hi over [on Tumblr.](https://cassandraleeds.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Xoxo
> 
> -K


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